Nicolette
by Baebe Caitlin
Summary: Snow White. I'm up to chapter six, though I'm not happy, so I'm revising. I just reposted chapter five. Enjoy ~
1. La Princesse

Snow White

Of mythic beasts and fairy wings she comes from light, her heart is sings But can a ravaged soul stay strong when no one loves you, heart of dark The stars are missing…death is here, but she can't quit, her fear is real She'll never cry or stop to die 'til she gives up the will to fight. 

I am Snow White, both in mind and physicality. Not in the innocent aspect; I was never known for being innocent, or wicked, because those issues never really play a large part. I'm not naïve…yet I'm not…educated in very tough experience. I'm known as Snow White for my aura, its clarity so potent even a strong Christian can tell it's there. My skin, luminous and healthy, is very fair (for I was born in Irlande, on my parents' vacation, and they say the misty, enchanted ambience there quite affected who I was). It represents happiness: maybe of my parents, maybe of myself.

                A week after she knew of her pregnancy, my mother struck her fingers reaching for a pink rose in the middle of a sky garden. The blood cascaded from petal to petal, though it was just a little, and the flower sort of took on a surreal, bejeweled mien. She saw this as a sign for success, which is what the color represents, so I assume, unsurprisingly, that she wanted a girl, and she believed my lips would be forever crimson. Hmm. Although they're dark, it's not a shade of rouge. They were even considering naming me Rosalie, though after a brief month or two, they chose one more suited to my responsibilities: Nicolette, which means "Victorious People", which is what I must make them.

                I am the great princess of a land called Ange Beau, where, during the day, the sky turns to a magnificent shade of rich azure, painted with clouds that swirl and stream as if in dance, and the trees grow tall and bountiful, providing its citizens with fresh air of pine. The night, its enigmatic wonder, is lit by bright, wondrous stars that shine upon the artful traveler, resting once in the enchanted forests, guided by the tracks of dreamy animals to approach my home in search of answers.

My home. The castle…the beauty of gothic architecture and spacious French design collaborated, to make something so lovely, so captivating, it could only be fit for the most lighthearted of royalty. That's me. On the outside, the walls are gleaming white in the sun, giving off a sort of scintillating effect, rising high above the land on the tallest hill. If one ever got to touch the material, his hand would feel the smoothness, almost like a milky soft (yet durable) jewel. The windows, tall and arching, are of stained glass: pictures of our family past, and the Lord, and our symbol: the back of an angel, spreading her great wings across the colorful backdrop. I was quite proud of the look of our home. Not haughty or anything—leave that to virtually everyone else of my blood—but I felt both lucky and joyous to be able to reside in it.

Outside of the main doors, the magnificent, velvety color of their tone going rather nicely with the castle walls, the Masse Velours resides, the palace grounds (for fairs and things)—home to every type of flower known to man, including the illusive Fairy Bough—and past that, Ange Beau's largest and most magnificent city, Belle. I go there every day. The library in the center square is one of the greatest sights I've ever known: a large, dome building, with a glass roof and at least four copies of all the books published in this great Earth, including a copious amount of first editions. Ahh…to be literate! Odd thing to say, I know, but that's how this building makes me feel inside. The shops and cafés surround each other, even the tiny little crepe and pastry stands that unendingly emit pleasant fragrances from their source. There is music and dancing on virtually every corner. Prestigious jewelry stores and the Town Hall lay near each other, and I promenade down the sweeping streets all the time, watching the individuals of our great nation, hearing their tales and their foreign tongues. All my senses are so alive in Belle that I feel as though I could explode any moment with an overdose of bliss. Every day I have it easy. It's a learning experience, and what we should all be feeling when we live.

Up until recently, this was my life.

Things happen; people fall apart, even families are subject to that. My mother died when I was born (was the red a symbol for blood, the so much that she lost?), so I don't remember her at all—except for the portraits along our serene hallways. She was a lovely woman, with long, brassy blonde hair and dark eyes that seemed to shout into your soul. But I have no relation with her, no memories, no times. My father (I get my hair and skin tone from him, my eyes from my mom) always said that I was my mother's legacy: that I was her continuing existence on Earth. That made me feel all right.

I love my father, the king of Ange Beau, and a gentle man. Being his only daughter, he always made me feel like I was his whole life (apart from the good of the people, I was) and boosted my self-esteem to the top, whenever one of my cousins would say something regarding my mother's death. A tall man, he has raven colored hair and misty, healthy pale skin that seems to glow under soft lights, and he's extremely handsome, factoring that he still looks like he's in his late twenties. Since for years it was just ourselves in the palace, we would travel many places, studying, exploring, all the while in the most beautiful clothes human hands could fabricate. My debutante ball, on my fifteenth birthday, was one of the greatest 'outfit' memories I have. I wore a blue dress, sleeveless, that hugged my waist in a corset fashion, the kind that had to be laced up, and from my hips jutted the fullest skirt I had ever seen, doused in amazing sparkles that shimmered like a bell when I walked. I never felt pain around him, because we were always happy.

And then the rain came.

During my seventeenth birthday (that's the one I had two months ago), the entire populace of Belle came to their princess's party. It was as if it was my coronation, and I was to ascend the throne that very hour.

I spent the entire morning preparing myself. There were seamstresses and maids at every angle, insisting I stand upon a pedestal, taking the sizes in and out and in and out; stitching me into a beautiful prison. My dress was glorious. It was a pink satin gown, with pink silk chiffon over my chest (it was sleeveless) and in my skirt, which was made to resemble a pale pink rose, each ripple of layer going over each other. When I spun, it flitted out like petals. The corset was also a lace-up, made of white silk and adorned with glistening 'flowers'. My hair, a mane of dark brown traveling to my waist, was pulled back partially with tiny little rose clips everywhere, and my makeup was done just enough to accent my face, my frame, and my outfit. I wore beads at my wrist and my ears, pale pink silken slippers (that resemble ballet shoes) and when I was finally allowed to look in the mirror, I thought I was a goddess.

My birthday is December twenty-first, the first day of winter, but no one has noticed that my favorite colors are of pastel—springtime colors—and my skin is soft and permanently light pink when I blush…which is often, because of my sensitive complexion. Perhaps there was a mix up? Whatever it was…my taste, and my birthday do not coincide. But snow does manage to soften the most intrepid of shades.

Manon, a servant girl who helped lace me into the dress, smiled brightly and lollopped up and down with thrill. We've always been friends growing up, so her formalities around me are completely diminished. "I love it! Nicci…no one's going to take their eye off of you."

"You think so?" I smiled happily; that was exactly what I wanted to hear…I guess I'm sort of self-conscious, because in truth, I think Manon is just as pretty.

But I did look beautiful, all vanity and egotism aside. I don't think it's in bad judgment to give oneself compliments from time to time. And as I paced around the room, anticipating my arrival in front of everyone, practicing conservatism, grace and amiability (the three qualities every princess should have), I realized that the only person I was trying to impress was my father. I wanted to make him proud of me; to make him realize truthfully it was okay he was without a male heir, because he had _me_. And on the day marking my seventeen years of life, I was going to try my very best to be the ideal daughter.

"Mademoiselle, it's time," said a middle-aged servant (I believe she was a mother), bending down and then opening the grand, white doors to the hallway for me. I breathed, watched the exit for a moment, and finally, quietly began my practiced walk into the red-carpeted halls. I passed a picture of our ancestors from two generations ago, seated before the mammoth glass window in the living room. They weren't exactly smiling, but I could feel pride of me sustaining their legacy.

"Announcing Nicolette de Neige le tiers of Ange Beau, daughter of Alexandre de Sang le septième of Ange Beau, born seventeen years ago on this day of December twenty-first, first day of winter. Your princess in all her glory, we present to you now," Marianne spoke, Manon's mother, who was a court announcer in her free time…an opera singer for her career and passion. She only did this, not because she was obliged to, but because she and my father were good friends, and she wanted to. Marianne is quite lovely, with long, fair hair like silk (yet looking nothing like my mother), and a nice, cordial attitude. She's a year younger than him (he'll be forty-three soon), and I always secretly wished they…well…you know. But back to my story.

I surpassed the jewel-encrusted doors, which were fashioned like two book covers, sparkling and saturated with primordial gems. It also has a sort of glittery surface, so whenever I swept my hand over its firm body, shimmer dust rubs off. I've no idea where that comes from, but it always replenishes.

Gasps and stares of awe arose almost immediately, and I lifted my chin and smiled grandiosely at my father, proud upon that throne. No fear. I was positive…positive every eye was on me, and I was intent on keeping it that way.

At last I could here the music. Grand…streaming…yet not pompous (how I hated pompous music!), just…beautiful. For me. I blinked twice and slowed my walk. Everything here was for me. The people, my friends, family…this very room was mine! My dress, beauty, title, virtues—I had it all. I was a splendid human being with perfection in her life, a heart for people below and above her, and a girl who could do anything. People would go to the moon just to bring me back its surrounding stars and think nothing of it. I was wonderful!  
I spun around gleefully and filled my ears with the sweet music and people's surprised exclamations, right into the arms of a handsome boy my age as we began to dance. Very soon other couples joined us and normal partying resumed…the room was spinning with brocades of silk and glister…stainless tuxedos clasped with flowing, satin dresses and bows. Everything was as though it was wrapped up in Christmas boxes, which are so illustrious and magnetic…they're usually better than what's inside.

"Princess…" the boy began, leading me with the ease of an equal, "you look exquisite, as you normally do of course, but tonight…there's just something…almost…magical about you…." He let one of my hands go for a graceful turn and one hundred and eighty degrees into it I rolled my eyes—then turned back into his arms, cloaked in rich green and white. "If I may…may I comment that you—"

"Please, your grace, can't we just start off as friends?" I smiled brightly, trying to suffocate his blinking, wide-eyed stare, and then with a sheepish grin and nod, he said 'yes', and I said, "Good. Call me Nicolette, if you will. May I ask your name?"

"Certainly…Ni…Nicolette. It's Clement." I saw he stuttered inwardly and hurriedly added, "Son of a Court Adviser who has been praised by _Mon roi_ many times, you must know him? Camille."

"Camille?" An image of a doe-eyed man with a contagious laugh came back to me. "Ahh yes, Camille. I know him well." I chuckled femininely—not like a giggle, but a sort of skipping laugh. It was cute, I must admit. "He's one of my favorite of those silly men. You must agree, their costumes _are_ a tad outlandish, no?"

He watched me for a minute, blond hair slipping into his bluer than blue eyes, and then he laughed. "You're right!"

We carried on like this for a long while, talking of frivolities that were as lighthearted as we were. I got him to open up; I knew I would, and was quite pleased at what he was. A poet…an artist…dangerous things that have nothing to do with politics. I think I was in love. No…that can't be it…maybe I was for that night…but when I picture his face—still fresh (I wonder what he's doing now; it's been less than half a year since I talked to him), I don't see l'amour at all. It's not strange.

The present opening was delightful, yet I had most of these things before. My favorite was a Rococo dress in the box of pure gold, and the least was…a rather gaudy gold necklace with my name inscribed, though I still accepted it with a warm heart and smile.

And then something caught my eye.

My father…my father. Not looking, nor talking about me. Entranced. By someone else. Marianne? No. The people past out of my vision (unknowingly) as my heart pumped with warm blood. A woman…with ringlets the color of ravishing blood…and eyes that warmed with romance. I could barely breathe. She was gorgeous. Prettier than I am? I…I didn't know. Entranced. Entranced! I felt my face go cold. Why was this such a burden? I had prayed every night since I could comprehend God that my father would find his love. This slender, beautiful woman…_my vision blurred_…was an angel.

So why did I feel like a demon?


	2. La Reine

                _The little girl ran to her mother's bedroom in the dead of night, shaking like the feeblest blade of grass. "What's wrong?" her mother asked, concerned. Her husband was not in the bed with her, and hadn't been for several months. "Mama, mama, I had a terrible dream that papa's ghost was back at our home! His…his…what do you call it? Apparition?" The mother lifted the child into her arms and stroked her hair softly. "It's okay, child, your father is fine. Even if he doesn't come back from these battles, he'll still always be in our hearts." The little girl, wide eyed, looked up at her. "Then why, right now, is he out of mine?"_

                I breathed, not really hearing them talk to me; talk to themselves. All I saw was my father and this woman, whispering ever so quietly to him, hand on champagne glass, stroking the neck thoughtfully. He said something to her, shaking his head in the process, and she tossed her head back victoriously and laughed. She was one of those people that had very wide eyes when she laughed, as though his words were shocking. I shuddered to think just what they were. And where my father was dressed quixotically (yet wonderfully) in a willowy white shirt, rich black pants and insets of opulently colored garments, she was arrayed in a dark, sort of jade-colored dress, very loose and tight in certain places, and a gold chain linked belt hung limply on her hips in a Medieval fashion. It contrasted nicely with her scarlet coils, which were free flowing and idealistic for a girl. And like mine, her skin was light and milky, with a healthy, shimmering complexion.

                It was hard to guess how old she was. I would say mid to late thirties, though I wouldn't have been surprised if she was still in her twenties. Ageless was the word. And she had very dazzling green eyes where my father and I only had honey or coffee colored…depending on what we're wearing. She was tall. Perhaps 5'10, and her build was graceful and flowing, so she looked forever as though she were a wispy painting. As for her face, it was stunning. Her chin was short and she had a petite countenance. Her cheeks, as were mine, were ruddy, and her eyebrows were permanently arched, even as she was giving him her friendliest face. Her lips were generous, and sort of dark, in a cushiony fashion, coordinating well with her small ears (which were pierced in three or four places), and finally, those emerald colored orbs were placed in two almond-shaped crevices, very large and fitting for her. She was the contrary to my father's classically straight, symmetric face.

                Slowly I excused myself, leaving them to their conversing and dancing as a vivacious song started up, complete with vocals and a rhythm I immensely enjoyed. They were sort of off in the shadows, away from a majority of us all, and I wondered if he wanted me to see him there. No one stands chatting near the corner unless they prefer to be secreted…should I have gone over? Yes…no…I was very confused. But I kept walking. Everyone was into the dance; no one saw me leave.  And I felt sort of lonely the action, surprisingly. From an aerial view I would be surrounded vastly on all sides by the marble floors, for this room was very large, and the bristles in my back weren't just from the tight straps of my dress. When they saw, me, the woman stopped talking for a moment, staring passively, and my father's eyes lit up. He grabbed my hand and spun me around charmingly. "Happy birthday, mon chéri. You look beyond lovely. It's hard to imagine you this grown up. I know I already gave you several things…" he produced a tiny white box from his pocket, enclosed in pink silk ribbon that matched almost impeccably with my dress. I took it slowly; it was palm sized, and carefully removed its wrappings, opened its clasp….

                "Oh Papa, it's wonderful!" I cried, examining the magnificent, purple jewel, flecked with sparkles, in the middle of a gorgeous silver band, with my name carved in quite an ancient language. It was large, but not overly so, and fit on my fourth finger as though it were a part of me. "Where did you get this?"

                "Far away from Belle. Not even in Ange Beau…it was your mother's ring. Well…sort of…she had it made for you. But the band and the jewel are so old they're timeless."

                "I see…" I said, lost in thought. My mother had touched this ring.

                And it was then that I noticed the woman with him, looking down at her hands, I'm sure feeling sort of awkward since the mention of her. She had tried to make her presence fall back among the shadows, and it worked for a moment, but when I swallowed hard, looking slowly at my papa, he looked from me to her and back again, smiling subtly. "Oh Nicolette, I want you to meet someone. Mademoiselle Vivianne, this is my daughter, le princesse."

                I curtsied and extended my hand, letting her take it as we both shook daintily. She curtsied back, and gave me a generous smile as she towered above me. "Hello Nicolette. What a lovely daughter you have, Monsieur Alexandre." She turned back to me. "I hope you're having a wonderful birthday."

                "I am. Thank you, Mam'selle. And are you?"

                "Quite indeed. I too have a present for you, oh, but it's not on me. One of my sons has it."

                She began looking past me, narrowing her eyes to scan the room. Her arms were down and her fingers were perked out very femininely. My father was back to watching her.

                "Oh please, you shouldn't have. I didn't really want anyone to bring gifts, just to be here."

                She smiled at me, her eyebrows perched. "No, don't want that, because they're more than gifts. They're blessings. And even the smallest one means something more than just a pretty thing." Before I had the chance to respond—even contemplate—she waved a graceful hand and called, "Oh, Nicolas, there you are. Have you met Nicolette's acquaintance?"

                "No mother," he said, not taking his eyes off me the entire time. He was very handsome, with strawberry blond hair, and eyes of my color. Tall and no older than twenty, he was significantly darker than his mother, yet still had that light, healthy glow. He spoke a few seconds past, although his gaze was beginning to make me wary, no matter how attractive he might have been. "How are you, Nicolette?" He sort of half-smiled and kissed my hand as I curtsied. "Happy birthday."

                "Thank you," I said, "I'm fine. And you?" I watched as he produced a red velvet jewelry box, and his mother nodded, and he opened it, revealing a dazzling comb. In its handle, diamonds arrayed here and there across a lush, metallic blue background, made the shape of falling rain. I stared at it for a moment, stunned, my hand frozen in place. I could feel all three pairs of eyes on me…and I could do nothing. "I…."

                Vivianne nodded her head. "This is my gift to you: that you will always prevail." She paused, thoughtfully. "And that you will feel deeply. Once again, ma princesse, happy birthday."

                Slowly, I took the comb. For this to be really happening was an anomaly…I had no idea who these people were, past formal introductions; she said she had _sons_, and I had only met one, and for them to give such a valuable piece of jewelry was…. "Mademoiselle…thank you so much!" I said in a fluster, and my eyes fell on Nicolas, "Thank you, monsieur, I…." My eyes flew on my father. He was radiant, smiling genuinely, and I gave him a grin. "Mam'selle, I cannot tell you how thankful I am."

                "It's quite alright, Nicolette. I'm happier to give the gift." She glanced at my father. "If you'll excuse me, now, I must retire to the powder room."

                Before any of us could comment, my father stepped in. "I'll show you the way, Mademoiselle." 

                She curtsied, but her eyes held no formalities. "Thank you."

                And with that, they left us, arm in arm (as in a courtly sort of way), with Nicolas glancing indifferently towards one of the large exits, the doors that they were headed for. He turned back to me—instant sparks forming in his eyes, and reached for my hand—seeming to not notice that I flinched; I detested being touched by those who didn't know me. His grip was strong, and his smile mirthful. "Care to dance?"

                I didn't accept at once. He was a little too sure of himself, and I _was_ a princess—_his_ princess, and he seemed to have no respect at all for me. I blanched at the thought of what his mind tells him he can and cannot do, and when you let them consume you, suaveness and good looks can do no good. I was going over this in my mind, enjoying making him wait, and when I finally decided that I would say yes to dance—and _only_ to dance, another boy crept from behind me, mouth slightly parted, eyes gawking to make Nicolas look as though he were blind, and finally took his place next to the blond boy's shoulder. My insides were tightening…I wanted Clement. 

                This one was handsome, not quite so as Nicolas, but possessed a rugged charm about him. He was taller, broader, and had close shaven red hair, with icy blue eyes and a way of breathing so slowly that it lured you in. But I was seething! How should they like me to look at _them_ that way? Were they not aware that they possessed no consent to act like perverts? I almost stamped my foot in rage. I could feel my face growing hot—I knew I would blush with rage—but I kept my posture. I retrieved my hand from Nicolas (a little forcefully) and curtsied toward our new companion. "Bonjour, monsieur, may I ask your name?"

                He bowed. At least he was further than Nicolas was. "Louis, my princess, and you are Nicolette, no?"

                "Yes. How do you do?"

                "Quite fine. I hope you are having a happy birthday?"

                "Yes…." I tried to think of something—anything—to say, to break the monotony. "So. You are your mother's sons?"

                I had gone to bed at five the next morning. I had asked the Lord to bless me with multiples of seventeen years more—maybe three or four, so I might actually live to be almost seventy, or close to it. Who knew. I could even be past a hundred when I would pop off, leaving my legacy to new children, just like me, who had seen fine days and a secure home to live in. I only hope they could be in such care as I have.

                I thought of nothing when I finally rested, pulling warm covers around to meet with feathery pillows. What was there to contemplate—for me? Other than education, political choices and leading a charmed life, I had to do nothing. I wasn't even out to spook myself over this old castle we presided in, my ancestors "haunting the halls" and whatnot, as all children do at night, but I just wanted joy…what I had. 

                And this Vivianne who was so charming. I had nothing against her, and she _had_ given me a mesmerizing comb, so I suppose it was my own selfish feelings that didn't want her to be in my father's room right now. I hadn't seen them since they left me, conversing with her two sons: Louis being nice and simplistically boyish—so obvious that he thought I was lovely—and Nicolas being sly, sexy and pulling at my very nerves. He thought of so many excuses to touch me, that I finally grabbed his hand, pierced a stare to his heart so vile it could break unity, and released.

                No, I didn't like him, so I could have been biased. But it was like she and I were in competition to see whose beauty could win my father's heart more.

                But were they in love? They were only talking.

                Maybe not; maybe she _had_ used that powder room to fix her nose, and then gone home to her wealthy manor (as I understood it) and played with her large barrels of money, inherited money I may add, that thrust her into the tiring position of a baroness.

                But she didn't. I was as sure she was under this roof as I was that I was winter's epitome, even though I didn't like to admit that—but I had never seen someone so…framed by its imagery.

                These thoughts were wild indeed, but they were nighttime thoughts, so they were legitimate, at least by my standards. And as I drifted off to sleep, watching Luna slip through my window pane (a large, silver frame of crafted flowers that Marianne and I painted a sort of lax blush color), I began to think of sticks, millions of sticks, piling up inside the castle, filling from base to brim. I know it's wicked to think of sticks; all the things they represent…cruelty, oppression, anything heinous…but again, I was drifting, and I couldn't control them. I had a dream that I was part of a tree, its leaves etched in gold, but they were weeping. I wanted to cry as well…. And when they—those with no faces—when they began wounding the bark with their instruments, silver, thin and shiny, I remembered the distinct, horrific fragrance of blood, and the sight of a million rose petals.

                "Knock, knock," a small pound or two followed, then the creaking of the luminous door, and, a few seconds later, the pulling of warm, Indian blankets from my grip. I awoke lazily. Luna had vanished, and in her place stood a giant tree, leaves like flowing ginger, and several branches low and wispy. 

                I knew it. Vivianne was there, hair tied halfway back in all her glory. It made her curls fall out and wild behind her face, though it was not messy, and it went perfectly with her ivory gown, silver designs of flowers and streaming plants entwined. This too, as her dress the previous night was, was streaming and slenderizing, and provided no hugging with the exception of her chain-linked belt. She didn't dress as other's did, all risqué and showy, but with a sort of medieval charm that belonged in this time no matter what the look was.

                "I hope you don't mind the intrusion…" she looked down at me, slightly smiling. Before I knew what was happening she had hold of my hand, and dragging me to sit up, plopped herself on my bed beside me. I looked at her dazedly—I know my eyes were narrow and confused, scrutinizing her slowly, wondering what in the Lord's name she was doing—what kind of audacity she had! "Mademoiselle, it's ten in the morning. Princesses shouldn't slumber so late." She reached to grab a piece of my hair, still thick and coarse from the land of dreams I was only just shaken from. It gleamed in the morning's gorgeous light to look like auburn. "And…they should always brush their hair before bedtime, no?"

                I said nothing, just watched her, mouth open in shock, eyes blinking. I was still very out of it. After a few seconds, I mouthed words quietly, and then whispered, "V…Vivianne?"

                I wanted to make her realize that I didn't know who she was—a stranger! —And that she shouldn't be even in the castle, let alone my _room_. On the inside I was screaming a million things…mostly images. Images of her leaving at once, and taking her two sons with her. Put them in her pocket—I didn't care! I was a feline; I wanted her out.

                She cocked her head and smiled sweetly. "Mam'_selle_ Vivianne, please, Nicolette. I _am_ your elder."

                "I'm sorry…Mam'_selle_." I took a hand and furiously rubbed my hair, making it poof up even more.

                "Thank you, mon chéri." She looked down at the blankets, which I was still surrounded by, and twirled her finger along with a vivacious design. "I…want to talk to you about something, okay?"

                I said nothing.

                She looked up in a caprice, smiled her most triumphantly, and cocked an eyebrow. I nodded.

                "Very well, Nicolette. Get dressed and come down to breakfast." _Breakfast?_ "We're almost ready to sit down." She rose. "Oh, and Nicolette, try to look nice. I'm…not sure how you usually dress, but you looked very beautiful last night. I'd like to see that taste again."

                And with nothing more, she left the room.

                It was silent for a very long while. I stayed in the same spot, staring at my door, which was shut tight and quickly, for she was expecting me to jump up right then and rush to fit her schedule. Prepare myself. I hopped out of bed. I would prepare myself.

                It's not that I didn't like _Vivianne_, (Mam'selle…it's just so informal, wouldn't one agree?), but she was acting as though she lived here, and had so for a thousand years, not paying any attention to the girl who really did reside in the castle, or her feelings. I strutted to the lavatory (a jasmine scented, purple bathroom tailored by only the very best) as I contemplated this, and ten minutes later pranced out relieved and with shiny teeth. She was nice, and at least physically fit enough for my father, and she talked to me as though she could identify…if she really _could_ was another story. I looked at myself in the mirror, plugging a brush through my hair, through its darkest and vilest areas, and through the simplistic wisps of the front. But why was she so bold about coming in here this morning? Shouldn't she be sheepish; start out slow, and work to gain my trust, rather than just drawing it from me? It was beyond exasperating! And as I brooded, I used my heavenly anti-perspiration stick, perfumed myself (l'rose), broke out lotion, and plucked discreet hairs from my arching eyebrows. Happily, I could finally gravitate toward the closet, hungering for my chance to prove myself. How could she say something so vulgar to me? I _always_ look nice. She had only seen me once…did she not know that I _knew_ I was Princess Nicolette de Neige le tiers? No, no, she obviously hadn't a clue.

                I smirked. I would give her one.

                I chose a dark green velvet dress, a Rococo one, which came to just above my knees…it was sort of juvenile, but oh so lovely, and I enjoyed it terribly, for it was lacey and frilly and everything a girl should take pleasure in. From the top, it sat upon my shoulders, streaming down to my elbows until it was intercepted by white ruffles—those coming down to the midways of my forearms. The neckline was very low cut, dipping down to starched frills mid-chest, and that going down into a straight-laced bodice of dark green. Near the tunic area, a lone section of white, delicate laces made it tight and gorgeous. The skirt mushroomed from there; a bustle of dark green was hooked in three sections, its massive outer lace of pure white, and because it was so short, it had extra bounce when I walked. It divided in the front by wavy frill, and in between it (the real skirt) was dark green velvet, intercepted by lace, and back to velvet. The finishing touches were the matching, dark green button shoes, and an inch thick green ribbon I tied at my neck, making a large bow at the nape. I tied my hair halfway so they could view that detail.

                Once I slipped in hoop earrings, not too large, and applied coffee lipstick and a minuscule amount of other makeup, I nodded approvingly to my reflection (Venus would be proud!), grabbed a color-coordinated fan from the basket near my door, and strolled out.

                Everyone was already waiting for me when I got to the large banquet hall, its table, taking up a good deal of the behemoth room, streaming with colorful things and fried foods I would never touch. A grand chandelier hung around ten feet above it, though it remained off, as there was more than enough light from the wall-length casements surrounding it. Outside of the room, which was exquisitely decorated with paintings and cushiony furniture, our grand courtyard spread about for what seemed like forever. I think of it as our private Masse Velours, complete with a lake and a maze.

                They all stopped midway through their conversation as I walked in, taking a place next to Nicolas, whose eyes were wide (yet faraway…), and his finger rested on his temple in thought. Vivianne was smiling approvingly. I knew she was beaming on the inside—or else seething—for I had proven that I knew how to look "nice" all the time. Louis was staring at one of the pins that divided the skirts of my dress. My father, sitting at the head of the table, opposite Vivianne, had a broad grin on his face; this was nothing new to him. I was doing cartwheels inside, as I acted so prim externally, because I could see the joy in his eyes, and I knew he was truly proud of me. I flashed him a close-mouthed smile and leisurely turned my head toward Vivianne. "Mademoiselle Vivianne," I acknowledged, eyes burning against her own fiery ones. We both had thoughts, wild thoughts, though neither of us knew them.

                "Monsieur Louis, Monsieur Nicolas…." My last stop was my father. I flashed another smile. "Papa."

                "Ma petite princesse," he acknowledged back, raising his glass as I did mine, and we both laughed—my belle like giggling against his smooth, low one.

                I turned to Vivianne. "You needed to tell me something?" I asked nonchalantly, picking up the kettle of rosemary tea.

                "Yes, well…" she glanced at my father, who pursed his lips (at least it looked that way from my peripheral vision) and nodded. "Yes, well," she began, more confident this time, "we know that, you've just met me—met us in fact," she acknowledged her offspring, Louis, who was talking to a servant girl next to him (I had to look twice at that), and Nicolas who I ignored completely, opting to pour the tea gingerly into my porcelain cup instead, "but we want you to know that, even though we _do_ seem like strangers to you, we aren't, not for long…because…because…. Your father and I are getting married."

                I stared at her for a long moment.

                "Nicolette, your tea!" my father shouted, and I gasped down in horror as it overflowed, right onto the napkin Nicolas had whipped out for a safety net above my beloved dress. The tablecloth around my area was soaked, and as a decoy, I stood up, thanked him (finally he acted as a gentleman), and took a lightheaded step or two back. "Ma…rried, father?" I tried to look at them, but my vision seemed all out of proportion. Vivianne stood up…but from where I stood, she didn't look concerned, not even perplexed, just the slightest bit angry. I said nothing to her—to Mam'_selle_ Vivianne—just stared. She was positively overstepping her boundary on this—horribly overstepping it. "How…can this be?" I demanded, clasping a hand on my forehead, forgetting that I had a closed fan in the other one.

                "It is not a curse, it's a blessing," she said curtly. "Look how childish you're behaving! I," she stood tall, pounding a fist over her heart. "I, am making an effort for this to work. Now…I know it's a shock. But if you can't handle this—then I suggest—we _all_ suggest—that you take a little time to heal yourself, because you're very weak." Her eyes narrowed. "Did you hear me? You—are—weak."

                Was this happening?

                I wasn't sure. I looked at my father, studied his face for a long while. He was very concerned for me; I could tell. But he said nothing. Nicolas and Louis, and his servant girl—they said nothing. Vivianne's malevolence vanished from her face, and it was replaced by silence, waiting for my move. How had she lashed out at me? …_Why_ did she? I only poured too much…I only swooned, I only…I only….

                I only ran.


	3. La Miroir

                _Colors                    Watch                     The_

_                Colors                                                                                                    Richness_

_                Colors.                                   Open Your Eyes._

                "Nicolette. Nicolette, you're being childish."

                I had found my way outside, in our garden, though I didn't go out through that room. There was a passage through one of the hallways a good deal away, and so I had rushed there, abandoned my fan halfway and found a parasol, matching, that I know propped open as I walked through the path. Although it was paved, it was intertwined with small little blossoms and leaves that made it pleasant, and the clicking sound of my boots calmed my nerves, if only a little. Oh, I was devastated!

                This was all so sudden, and we were royal; things take time in royal families…marriage, anyway. How in love were they to meet one night…and know, and know that they wanted to be together forever? And Vivianne…she hadn't given me a chance at all. Excuse moi if the idea of marriage was a tad brash!

                I wasn't even thinking; how could I? My father was going to be a husband again. It wasn't a curse…. She was right. And she wasn't a monster, or anything, but I just thought the idea of it all was ludicrous. They shouldn't be so ready so soon. Get to know each other, at least! Oh, they say that's what they did, but did she know his dedication to ruling Ange Beau was fierce and a large part of his life? And did he know each and every one of her moods? Her quirks? I think not. They were so mistaken it was comical.

                I sighed, collapsing on one of the ancient white benches near the pond, staring down at the Earth. Some of the water had splashed near and around here, from recent rain I suppose, and I kicked it, letting the water dash against my shoes. The frills of my dress spread all around me, and the skintight bodice was rather constricting, making my body straight as a blade and then bend from exasperation, so I resembled a doll, or something unnatural and close to it, painted face and a body that refuses to relax. 

                But that was me. I had lost all train of thought, of proper ways and decisions on how I should react to this, and I was only a doll at the moment. I felt indescribably cold, alone…and selfish. This is what my father wanted, and I hadn't even thought of him at all. Just my resentment toward Vivianne, and her coming in to share her life with us, and even then, it was only on how _I_ would feel. Why couldn't I just for once accept things not suited to fit my personal preference?

                Because this has never happened before. I always, always got what I wanted, when I wanted it, and I never knew how to adapt to other people's wishes, with the sole exceptions of my father, and when I wanted to do someone good. I wasn't a bad person; I'm not, and I'm sure Vivianne wasn't as well, but now the idea on the back of my mind arose, spreading its mystical tentacles around my thoughts and growing, until I could not possibly shut it off. Was I really weak?

                I refused to accept it, smoothing my frock and sitting up straight and tall, pulling the parasol open and looking far across the garden, to the maze, with a blazing fire getting warmer in my eyes. The art of ruling was hereditary in our family, and I had gotten the best of the genes, and the knowledge that a strong leader makes a strong land. I was unbreakable, ready to choose the best for even the most trivial of decisions, not to mention the ones that could affect lives for centuries. But I was also seventeen. I was a girl; a teenager, and although I was wise of governing skills, and most educated in political matters, I didn't have very many years behind me. What did I really need to know…that would make me better?

                I didn't want to dwell on this anymore, not now anyway. 

                I stood up, stretching my calves, staring straight into the sun, my honey eyes against its vibrant yellow rays, shimmering like a jewel beneath shine infested water. I wanted to reach out, to put it in my pocket for later wear. The sun. How glorious and warm, a little too warm for my skin, yet I love it all the same.

                I knew that I was selfish. But I wasn't weak, and I wasn't oblivious. You know, all these counts against me seemed as though I had no discretion for others at all. In truth, I was dedicating my life to good. I didn't live for myself; I lived for others. But I took pleasure in life. Was that so bad? Don't hurt others' feelings, but don't neglect your own. Vivianne couldn't see that…but I would give her a chance.

                Quietly I began my trek to the labyrinth, its hedges green and purple in the morning sky. I had to cross several walkways of flooded water to do it, though I didn't mind. My shoes were already wet, and I enjoyed the infinitesimal puddles I made when I walked. Beaming against soft clouds, the water made a rainbow prism, almost like colorful steppingstones beneath me, and I had to laugh. Rainy days were rare in Ange Beau, and the aftereffects more than made up for them.

                Something caught my eye in the pond, less than a foot away from me, for the path was made alongside the water, so one could walk and look, walk and look and never know a bad view. The crystalline color, almost a blue, but not quite, shone in the sunbeams and pulled me to it, so that although I could try, I could never take my eyes off of it.

                A prism was there, small and secreted, in the shallow part of the pool, the one I was near. At every minor angle I tilted my head, it seemed to shift its glister, so that I was further drawn to it than I ever meant to be. I looked up for a moment; the house was a good distance away; no one would care to look. My eyes fell on one of the large door-windows. Were they all still in there? Still discussing their _plans_? If they were, they surely weren't thinking of me (well, maybe Papa), and I was free, finally, to do what I wished.

                Slightly smiling, I glanced at the prism again, and quickly removed my shoes. The pathway was already streaming with water, so I left them there, one knocked over, and the other sideways, as if to ask why I was leaving them. I gripped the parasol above my head, sheltering the sun with one hand, and with the other, held up my dress as I started out into the water. The ground was soft (and I'm sure quite muddy!), and not particularly smooth, so once or twice I wavered in my stance, only to close my eyes, and level things…so in a minute…I was fine to go. I edged near and nearer to the shape, whatever it was, its colors drawing my so ardently until I almost forgot to breathe…until finally, near the end of the shallow part, where the water met my knees (the hems of my dress gently grazed the surface, so I let them go), I bent beneath my sunshade, and reached to touch it.

                It was a feather, I could see then, dripping wet in my hand, but the anomaly was…the colors didn't fade. Black originally, maybe, but the angles, no matter how I held it, still kept the rainbow prism. And it was shiny; lustrous. Its stem was like a lacquer, and sort of a mahogany, thick and sturdy. It didn't look real, but the soft, airy touch of its plume seemed to convince me.

                Ahh, what was it of? I couldn't even begin to imagine. Too small to be a peacock, too large to be anything else. I half believed it belonged to a phoenix, and ruminated how wonderful that would be, but in considering 'real' animals, nothing came to mind. Still, I studied it. The entire feather was quite lovely—not a thing of junk I was expecting to be disappointed by, but almost magical.

                I had no pockets, so I hung onto it (with the hand originally holding up my skirts) as I waded back to the path. And it was only then I realized, getting out, my legs dripping wet and shivering, how utterly cold it was! I stopped moving for a moment, eyebrows knitting, mind contemplating how on Earth I had gotten in that pool. With my feather still in hand, I looked over my shoulder: the water was pale blue, and slightly undulating from things disturbing its natural flow. But it looked so icy! Was this quill really that hypnotic—that special? I glanced at it again, quite amused. It was one of my treasures now, whatever it was. 

                I grabbed my shoes, and began to walk back to the castle, failing to see the red glare its beams cast behind me, for just an instant.

                "Bonsoir. Puis-je vous offrir un verre?"

                "Good evening. May I offer you a drink?"

                "Very good. Try this. Aimeriez-vous aller danser?"

                "Oh…I _know_ this one…" I racked my brain of my limited English skills, trying to think of the cognates in the sentence. 

                "Aimeriez-vous…. _Would_ you…."

                "Come on…" Marianne eyed me over the English book (she's fluent in several languages…a goal I have. So far I know three, not including English, which is only intermediate for me at best), trying to coax me with her eyes, as if that would make all the difference in the world. Manon sat behind her, mocking me with her smile. Her hair was up in a loose, red cotton bandana, as it was almost juxtaposing my ruby combs at either side, red studs and matching cotton sundress. It was warm for December; caught between Christmas and the New Year, and I had dressed quite like a Micronesian, nothing vulgar of course, but simple and pretty.

                Something clicked in my mind and I cried out, "Would you care to dance!" leaning forward in my chair out of anticipation of Marianne's confirmation; waiting to see her head shake. Instead, still peeking from behind the book, she looked at me, then down at the page, making me wait, and finally her eyes went narrow like a cat's, smiling, and she nodded.

                "Yes!" I clapped my hands and leaned back with victory.

                "Very good, Nicole (she's one of the very few people that call me that, or call me that with my acceptance). You've gotten twenty new verses right. I think it's okay to take a break, no?" She glanced at her daughter. "If you have no more chores to do right now, you two can go."

                I rose, accompanied by a grinning Manon, and we ran out of the schoolroom, not heeding Marianne's joyous reprimands that we would surely sully our dresses if we continued like we did. It was located on the very edge of the east wing, a few stories from the ground floor, where a large window let in light from the heavens on the dark chalkboard, glimmering white walls, and a gracefully enormous double doorway. Although this is where the learning took place, not to mention the music room right next door, very few people, unless they were youths like us or servants, came here. I've always wondered that. The most pleasant parts of the castle, and they were empty! I presume it shows how people are.

                It had been a week since I ran from the news, and although I had talked with Vivianne, things between us were a tad silent. I didn't really have anything to say to her, nor she to me, unless they were instructions or odd compliments ('Oh, your hair is so lovely! You really shouldn't wear it like that…'). I was still undecided on how I should like her—I wanted my father to be his happiest, and I knew that was for us to get along—but to enjoy each other's company was much harder to come by. I decided I would accept her, all her flaws, and if she didn't do the same for me, he would surely see and then everything would be solved, in any case ending up in my favor. 

                Manon tucked some of her blonde hair back in the scarf, turned and giggled, about to descend the staircase. "When are they getting married?"

                "Two weeks." I rolled my eyes, making a tart face, and broke to smiling. "But don't let's talk about it. Belle today?"

                "Of course."

                Halfway through the first stair hallway, or one of them rather, a dark chill swept over my heart. The lights were low here, and I could just detect Julien, tall, fair-haired and scowling at me, almost floating from one room to another. My father's advisor, I don't suppose what age he is…I believe he's still in his twenties, and he's devastatingly handsome, but in an ornery sense. Everywhere he looks he scowls, or smiles so sensually; so evilly that I forget myself for minutes of a time, drawn to his mouth, and watch its dramatic changes with a rapt look upon my face. And then of course I catch his eye, and he watches me watch him, and our gazes clash, and I flutter my eyelids downward, while his eyes dart off to another angle and it's left at that.

                It didn't take me long to realize, but I knew. Manon had not seen him.

                The pain was escalating by the second, and I clamped my heart eloquently, hurting, but not…physically. It was more of a depressingly cold feeling, like I was all alone, unable to speak…and bound by unearthly laws. In my head a dark crow was taking flight, from a snowy, barren branch, and a sharp kick to my stomach brought me back to Manon's whispered calls, followed by my turning to see Vivianne standing behind us.

                She was all in black; another medieval frock with a cleavage-bearing top, slimming dress and wispy hems. She shook her head, bouncing curls that were pulled back and the few errant strands that escaped. Disapproving as usual. "Nicolette, if you're going to run with servants, you should act like one." To Manon: "What is your hair doing? Being shown. I suggest you retie your bandana to cover _all_ of it, if you don't want me cutting it off. Now, if you have nothing else to do, you can go help in the kitchen. There are dishes to be washed. Leave us, now." Manon lowered her head and shook it, glancing up at me through her eyelashes, while her face was flustering, before she curtsied and backed away to the staircase. I watched the whole thing with an open mouth and heated skin, glaring daggers at that woman, and I couldn't verbally protest the whole time Manon was leaving. It was too unbelievable. To me she turned back and sighed, helplessly placing her hands on her hips and looking down at me. "I suppose you can do chores, no? Do you even know what they are? C-h-o-r-e-s. They are tasks you do about a home, cleaning or improving upon it so things won't look so cluttered. I want you to take the bucket and fill it with soap and water, grab a cloth from the third floor closet, and scrub the terrace in the garden. It will do a lot to get ready, and teach you a thing or two about hard work."

                I continued looking at her, unmoving.

                "I said _do it_, Nicolette. There's no argument in this."

                "Why, I didn't say anything, Mademoiselle Vivianne."

                "Yes, you did." She gave me a half smile, proceeding to elegantly walk past me, looking more like a shadow in all this darkness than a woman. And when she entered one of the doors, I couldn't help but notice it was the same one that Julien slid into.

                It was wrong, I knew it; my thoughts. They were curious and raging wildly—filled with questions and vivid images of what they might be meeting on…I wasn't sure what room that was, as I had scarcely been down this hallway, let alone all the quarters in it. They must have spoke recently…made their plans to come specifically to here: a secluded hallway where no one would find them. Vivianne must have known that I saw her walk in—but I would bet she never guessed I saw Julien. I should have just backed away; left, gone to where the light was, where all the sane and happy people were.

                I crept on tiptoes to the door a few feet away, ever so quietly, so not even the spiders in their neglected corners would here me. I was a cat, chasing prey that was their conversation, edging in closer and closer to the shiny knob, focusing all my energy on it, reaching for it, until my head began to pound. If there was a keyhole I would have looked through it, but there was none, and the walls and door were too thick to hear past…. With a prayer and muscles so lax I could have been dead, I gently turned down the knob, watching it seem like it was frozen, even in motion, and when it was as far down as it could go (without squeaking once! I must have God's grace on my side), I lowered myself on my knees, heart beating fast, shoulders trembling, got against the frame, and pushed the door open a fraction of an inch.

                It was hard to see at first; the lights were almost nonexistent in here, as well. I found myself staring at the ground, at its hazel blue carpeting, up to the nightstand near a large bed with a pink and blue quilt (this furniture must have been very old). The ceiling was decorated with a painting of several people, sitting around what I think was a table, though with my limited sight, I couldn't exactly be sure.

                Closing my eyes and taking a few quick breaths, I pushed it farther, and saw both Julien and Vivianne sitting on the end of the bed, facing each other. Questioning as I was, I waited, and studied them. She was moving her hands to fit her conversation; shaking her head and speaking things inaudible to me, and he was nodding, agreeing eloquently, still knitting his brows with a callous air.

                Without notice she threw back her head and laughed, bell-like and deafening, filling the room with knowledge of her pleasure. "Yes," she said, and then louder, "yes." She raised her arm and brought it round to point at him. "Let's do it. Are you sure it's accurate?"

                "Positive, Mam'selle." Even _he_ has to call her that. "Are we ready to begin?" Smirking, she nodded her head. "Excellent."

                He then closed his eyes, rubbing his hands together quite harshly, not ceasing until the slightest trail of smoke came out from his closed palms, floating about them majestically.

                I blinked a few times. Smoke? From his hands?

                That couldn't be right…no…that wasn't right at all! For a human being to move so fast, so sternly to spark the beginnings of an element was…it was beyond comprehension. But as I watched closer…studying Julien's patterns…the way he called so much energy into his actions…I could actually fathom this.

                In a minute he finally stopped, his stomach heaving in and out with utmost work. His eyes weren't their normal blue; a sort of Thalo blue, I might add, but a grayish…bluish…haunting shade that sparkled deeply into Vivianne. There was smoke and incense around him, framing almost a broken circle about his body, and though it scared me…I couldn't take my eyes, large and dismayed, away. 

                "Three…questions…" he looked down at himself, at his hands and legs, and slowly lifted his eyes toward her beneath fixed brows. She looked surprisingly calm.

                She smoothed her head with her hands, breathed deeply and nodded. "Of Ange Beau's entire populace, what ranking am I among the most beautiful?"

                Julien said nothing, his breathing quite audible, while he watched her with ireful eyes. The silence beneath was intense, surrounding the room, wanting to escape and fill the world; I knew. It crawled up my back, pricking my skin until my hand wavered on the knob. I closed my eyes to collect myself, and went back to attentiveness once again.

                "You are the second most beautiful in the land of Ange Beau, which covers the city of Belle to the province of Aimee, to the grounds of Am—"

                "Question two is…" said Vivianne, a smile missing from her face, "who is the first most beautiful of Ange Beau?"

                He watched her again. Another minute passed by, and then, "The most beautiful in the entire land of Ange Beau is," the smoke made weaving patterns in front of him, mending and fusing together to create an entire wall of mist. A silhouette appeared, reflecting Vivianne's position, but this one had long, flowing straight hair, and was smaller both in height and frame. Her skin started to color, very lightly, and her eyes took on a look of piercing honey. Her mouth was full and curved upwards in a smile, rather arrogantly—probably smug from winning, and when the rest of her was filled in: long hair covering the front of her wispy white dress, nose and ears and cheeks all exposed, my heart skipped a beat.

                That was me.

                And Vivianne, as she realized this, took her fist from her lap to the mirror. Julien's eyes fluttered as he came to again, same intense blue color, and as she stood up in a rage, his gaze fell on the cracked door.

            Immediately I lunged back and ran, working my legs to the nearest staircase, heading to the kitchen to pull Manon away from her unjust chores and fleeing to Belle, to escape the insane wrath of this castle.


	4. L'amour

_"I don't understand. Perhaps we can work it out, but the pain is too much. This is just too weird. And thrust into a space where one can hardly breathe is not where I am. Hold yourself, because time has stopped. My world has stopped, and to get it back the way it was…is to fight."_

                The next few weeks or so around the castle were maddening; a flurry of maids and preparations, ingredients bustled through to the kitchen, all royalty and attendants being fitted for strange or wondrous garments. Personally, I had designed my dress myself, and ordered the materials for the seamstresses to create it. Vivianne will never butt into my fashion life, even if that is the only thing I can protect as my own.

                Speaking of her, I had tried, at all costs, to avoid her looks, her odd compliments ("Oh, you're hair is so lovely! You really shouldn't wear it like that…"), her very presence at every turn. What I had witnessed was beyond weird, and frightening, and all craziness aside, why should beauty manage to be so important to her anyway? She was _second_, for the good lord's sake. Was she actually displeased? I was first…. I don't think I'm unattractive, or even merely pretty, but I would never consider myself above all those other beautiful women I had seen in our country. Even Vivianne. Who could judge something like that, anyway? Julien? Was it of his standards? Or was it something cosmic, some higher power that none of us should think to question?

                I avoided him as well, though it was much easier. When he was here at all, he always seemed to be in the next room, distant and unreachable, like something only in background. I wonder if he will be at their wedding, or if I'll notice him at all.

                It's not a magnificent spectacle to see a princess timid in her own home, and I shan't let it get me down, but still…that event, that small wonder was plaguing even my dreams. There was one I quite remember, a few days before, where I was looking into a full-length, diamond-framed mirror, clothed richly in absolutely nothing. My reflection, however, was wearing a long, red dress, with satin ties and ribbons, mimicking my every move. When I moved my hand to touch the glass, it slowly laced fingers with mine, watching me, until a discreet sword was flung into my stomach, sending me to a surprised death.

                While these are minor setbacks in my life, I can't help but thinking they will stay for more than awhile. I should have probably stopped thinking about them; forgotten them, but that's much easier said than done.

                February twenty-third was their big day, when all the royals, nobles, bourgeoisies, and even peasants came from underneath the white pentacles of our reign. The Masse Velours had been turned into a fascinating display of floatation…at least, that's how it felt, anyway. Beautiful camps of white satin had been strung across in various places, complimented with pale pink roses or deep red ones to add a dramatic effect. There were people: planners, servants, decorators, in ever pore of my home, in and out of rooms, climbing on walls to strew their dazzling ribbons across, even checking underneath beds for any undesirable dust or unruliness. As I was walking to get a glass of water in the morning, one jumped out from a ravine-like corridor to try to take my measurements. I almost had to shout over his murmurings that my dress had already been fitted, thank you very much! I realize it is a passion to plan someone's wedding, I suppose, but this seemed a little ridiculous. I decided to quickly retreat into my father's room after that, where his almost-bride was absent…taking measurements, getting her hair done…something along those lines.

                "Daddy," I ran up to him, still in his black night attire and leaning against the pillows with papers in his hand, and handed him a white rose I had stolen from one of the camps.  "Happy Wedding Day." I kissed him on the cheek. "You must really love her."

                "Nicole," he kissed me back, "I do, I do, but you will always be my leading lady." At this point I smiled, but I couldn't help letting my face draw down to the comforter, rich silk fabric in crimson. He gently lifted my chin up, grinning in that fatherly way. "Hey, it's going to be okay. Our family, for once!—is extending. You've got to handsome new brothers, a _wonderful_ new mère…even though you two aren't as close yet. Oh, Nicolette, she makes me so happy, and I know she'll make _us_ happy. Just give her a chance." He paused, waiting for a reaction, but when I made none but look at him, he continued, "You are a beautiful, intelligent, extraordinary princess, and my little girl. We will have a wonderful life."

                I grabbed a pillow and held fast to it, beginning to rock back and forth. "Father, how did you and Vivianne meet?"

                "Oh…well…I was watching you. My little girl looking so beautiful up there…I was truly proud. And amazed that I could have such a family. Some people have ten or eleven members in theirs, and they never have the love or friendship that we do.

                "Anyway, while you were dancing with Camille's son—" "You know him?" I interrupted, and he laughed and nodded. "I was mingling with the guests, as usual. Most of them just wanted to tell me how beautiful my daughter looked, and I wholeheartedly agreed, of course. And then…I saw this woman, Nicolette, looking at the tapestry on the wall—you know, that one of the two men from the new country worshipping the angel? And she had this…vibrant, long red hair that moved with every glance of her eyes. And her style was so wonderfully unique, it was just sort of drawing, and her face…her charm…I have never seen another woman so beautiful—except for you, of course—since your mother was alive."

                "What about Marianne?"

                "Marianne?"  
                "Marianne," I repeated, shaking him out of his distant gaze. "Don't you think she is beautiful?"

                He smiled, showing off his warm eyes. "Yes. Yes, I do."

                I secretly screamed. "Go on."

                "Well, I approached her, though I have to admit, I was a little scared. I went around people and tables to avoid her seeing me, and finally, I was able to approach her from the perfect place. I stood a little behind her for a moment, admiring the scroll myself. I murmured, 'It's a lovely picture, isn't it?'

                "She turned around very gracefully, scanning me up and down, with no trepidation of talking to a king at all! Finally, someone that saw me as a regular man. She smiled, nodded, and turned back. 'Yes,' she said, 'and the symbolism is wonderful. I like how the men are only regular people—no royalty or nobility—and that even something like an angel will be gracious if their love is strong enough.'

                " 'Interesting,' I said, looking more closely at it this time. 'But how do you know they are regular men?' At this point she had backed up to my level, so we were equal in our perspective. 'They both wear only pants, and the ties, of color, seem to be their nicest things. Like they only wore them on such very special occasions as this. And look at her wings, at how much color they hold. All of the electromagnetic spectrum, I think. And look at all the color she admits. It surrounds the men, embracing them.'

                "I could only watch her for a moment. I had never looked closely at those tapestries…I saw them only as art, not the old ones you and I have studied in the great monasteries or chapels, but I guessed I overlooked these, only because they were new. 'You are very perceptive,' I told her why she continued to look at the picture. 'Are you a doctor or teacher of any kind?' She smiled again, turning to stare me right in the eyes. 'No, but I have had schooling, which is more than I can say for many girls, so I decided I would use it.' 'It shows.' 'Thank you. You seem to be quite an intelligent man yourself, from the patterns of our well country.' 'Well, I feel not as bright after that spectacle just now.' She broke into enchanting, bell-like laughter. 'Don't be so hard on yourself. Even the most prolific scholars overlook these things as mere art from time to time.'

                "I smiled, hardly noticing we were already walking arm-in-arm. I've escorted so many in my life…it's almost like breathing now. I asked her what her name was, and she said 'Vivianne, and I take yours to be Alexandre.' I remarked, 'Alas! My identity is revealed,' all the while enjoying her mirth, and soon after I pledged to tell her that I hardly ever enjoyed looking, I mean really looking, at all the small things around me. After that, I forget how it happened, but we became involved in a quite heated theosophical discussion. I fell in love, Nicolette, and I can't comprehend how it happened so fast. She just…it was almost as if she drew that proposal from my lips, 'Will you marry me.' And I feel like I am young again."

                A reflective ten seconds drew by, as he smiled to himself, lost in the creased patterns on his sheets.  I hated it. I hated it with such ardor I was bleeding inside, probably giving myself some disease, consumption, hemophilia, anything stressing, and I wanted to scream with envy and passion mixed with shock, as I rarely express my feelings so openly. There's a trait to fix if ever there was one, a major fault in this earthly frame I'm stuck in.

                In those ten seconds, while he was leaving the present in a dream world of Vivianne and himself, I leaned in, unbeknownst to him, and kissed him directly on the forehead. "If you feel this strongly about her, daddy, I'm glad. I love you, and God bless."

                His happy eyes shifted upon me imminently, dark and glazed with beauty. "Nicolette, you're not going away. You're not going to die."

                How little he knew.

                That day, I think I realized it. I looked so clearly into his pupils, my lighter shade almost clashing, yet mirroring his intensity. I tried to speak through them, "Please papa! Don't you see? I will die! I will die!" But he wouldn't listen. Or maybe that was me.

                The wedding was at three o'clock, and I started getting ready at noon. I showered, brushed my teeth and hair (very basic needs), plucked those one or two hairs that grew in above my lids, and when it was all finished and well, when I had enjoyed a couple of the erythroxylon coca leaves I had stashed next to my bed, I took a long look at myself in the mirror. Here was a girl in her own realm, disconnected from all other entities. She was so lost it was grand; she was made onto a higher scale, with grace and amiability and all that, given a title fit to connote the most wistful ideas inside the brains of millions. A _princess_, she was called. What was really the case would probably baffle us all, and her title would be reduced (or enlarged?) to that of a mental patient, beating her head against the soft yet cold walls for solace.

                At one I was fitted for my dress in la coiffeuse, where as usual, maids and the seamstresses attended to stuffing me in that flowery thing. I was almost literally the model; the baby doll that has peculiarly good posture, while they were the ones admiring their art, their success. I was happy to do it, of course, in all goodness and reality. Manon was there with me, and some of the other girls my age (both servants and nobles alike, distinguished in either their perfect silk frocks and stockings, or the simple beauty of a laced bodice and hiked up skirt), so I had plenty of company, and was joyful when they started discussing how many eligible—and not to mention handsome—young boys would be at the affair. It's interesting to see how they react in manner when in the company of a princess. Some sweat, some try to be themselves; others practice grammar and genteel habits so affluently, I feel as though I'm talking to a snake; a serpent waiting in the shadows of the fauna rather than a teenage child.

                "How shall we do your hair today?" a woman with long and abundant red hair asked, examining chunks of my locks by lifting them in her hand in front of the mirror. I was on a pedestal to match the full-length glass, and it was interesting how all the ribbon and thread sort of came together the more they pinched and pulled at my outfit.

                "Well, I'm going to be wearing that hat, so I think at least partially down."

                "Good choice," said she, and without any more inquiry she began to brush my hair to silk, pulling parts back to elegantly braid. Another woman—I was too focused on an interesting conversation about what goes on at these coeducational schools to note any lasting characteristics—came to paint my face in shades impeccably coinciding with the fabric. She drew out a long line of eyeliner to make my pupils look wild and phantasmagoric, and brushed pink onto my already crimson cheeks for extra effect. "Such soft skin you have," she told me, as I finally saw she was little older than me, and from the southern islands. She smiled brightly, showing off pearly white, fine pointed teeth that went nicely with her complexion and dark eyes. A waif of a girl, she was one of those mysterious, airy people that would do nicely to pose for portraits or appear in plays. I tried to smile when she said this, though she quickly grasped my chin and stared directly into me, using her free hand to mark my lips with color. "Are you ready?" her smile had faded into grotesque intensity, and though I tried to nod, she held my jaw shut for the sake of her work.

                At three o'clock, I had appeared in the chapel to take my seat, a comfy sort of pew, as soft as a throne, at the very front of the great cathedral inside the castle grounds. Angels and apostles, black men, white men, brown and yellow and red and blue men, death and life, tears of joy and anguish, magic and unity—all this was present in some form or fashion. The walls were decorated with beads and jewels, mostly crystal, to catch the light as the sun beamed into through le Ange's wings every sunrise. I have never missed a day of church when residing in the castle—to pass this up would bring great ignominy upon myself not only by others, but of my own standards. It had all the makings of an enchanted fairytale…it truly was magical.

                I was the Pallas before all, before the bride and groom should make their mark, when only the priest, Father Loriel, was perusing his gilded scripts for the oncoming event. He was a wise old man, who lived in the secreted countryside with his wife, when all their children had grown up and moved away. I loved watching his robes, how each Sabbath they would change in their entire splendor, and on special occasions they would have gold and silver or rubies entwined into their folds. He truly was a holy man, and the kind of person believing fervently in doing the right thing yet still being allowed to take pleasure in what life has to offer. A Puritan would be shocked at our superfluous spending in the name of God, but, as long as it's here and doesn't hurt anyone, we might as well use it.

                By the time I had entered the music started, a grand, smooth melody of sorts that I almost swooned from listening to. All or most of the people invited to attend the wedding had taken their places, and it was time for the higher-ups to enter, the ones closest to the king or his bride. I fit that description more than anyone else, well, my two soon-to-be brothers and I, who I hardly believe match up to my magnanimous bloodline. I know, I know. That's an awful thing to say. What do you expect from me, though, honestly? I can't be someone's baby doll, the embodiment of innocence, because I too am a human being; I've gone through things, both good and bad. If I received a full-frontal lobotomy then perhaps, just perhaps, I will have achieved that desired effect of darling naivety in which princesses are so highly recognized with. So I took in the awe, the gasps of viewing such a stunning spectacle; I knew what I would be wearing would be on the main list of conversation for as long as they had known about the wedding (which given Vivianne and Mon Roi's impulsive nature hadn't been very long), and I was pleased to give them what I had owned up to.

                My dress was pink again, but a much lighter, softer taste, in the pastel since of the word. Since this was a day wedding, I wanted to fit into the springtime atmosphere that word connotes—even though it was late February and freezing cold outside. I find that kind of odd, since it was almost warm enough for Indian summer just a few weeks ago. Perhaps the temperature fell along with my convictions. Starting from the top, it was sleeveless, though the straps were thick with pink and white, dazzling flowers that glistened in the daylight. The neckline was low and square, not like a V-shape, and was complimented only by a string of pearls at my neck and the soft shine of the fabric. The bodice went down to my waist and stopped to a point at my hips (a sash ornamented my backside), where a full, mesh-like pink skirt hung to the ground. A ribbon tailored the hem of the top layer, and in each fold clusters of sparkling white flowers stood out with small pink bows. It was glorious. I wore open-toed heels with a buckle, shiny and smooth, cream-colored gloves that were laced over my hand resembling something like henna, and over my hair, decorated with small and random braids here and there, there affixed a wide-brimmed hat that was so flowery and pink in all its elegance, I felt as though I was walking through a little girl's dream world as the ideal fancy of a young woman.

                I took my place among those first rows, next to my auntie, my mother's older sister, who was handsome and outrageous in her feathered décor. She welcomed me, said I looked as splendid as the way human beings were meant to look, whatever that means, and turned her attention back to her seven children on the left of her. I sat there, hands in lap, perfect posture, waiting for all this fuss to be over: he would just marry the stupid woman and that would be that, we could all go to our respective rooms and get on with our lives. It all seemed to be stretched out to misery just for me.

                At three-ten (these affairs always run a little late), the familiar music began, and each set of doors at the entrance (there were five, I believe: two on either side of the main ones) was being opened in order. In all the excitement everyone turned back, except for me, so I was able to smile at my papa, handsome and perfect, as he entered and took his place on the alter. He winked at me, and I blew him a happy kiss—his eyes were so very genuine, I couldn't despise him for this backward love, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Julien hastily move down the hall, catching this and that girl's eye, to sit in the front on the right pew opposite ours. I minutely tipped my head to the left to see from under the brim, curiously. My father saw him too, and I watched this man friendly nod, as if it were a business agreement that he should attend, while shuffling to get situated. He was wearing a brilliant blue overcoat, with gold around the pearl buttons, all which were closed up except the first two, which were covered by the wide collar of his snow-white shirt. Those first few buttons were undone as well, to reveal the tiniest look of his bare collarbone before dipping down into cloth. There were frills protruding from his wide sleeves, covering most of his hands save the very bottom of his fingers on, and where the coat handsomely tailored out to his knees, a dark, grayish sort of color in his formfitting leggings matched the richness of his threads. From his knees black leather boots hugged all the way down to strong heels that made that clicking sound when the wearer walked. His almost illuminative blond hair was brushed back into a ponytail, descending only to his shoulders, and I could just detect the silvery glint of an earring as I watched with a lifted brow and curious eyes. In all his messing around, he through a casual glance at the other side of the room, over me, and then stopped, bringing his gaze back up and then resting on my eyes, lips parting, as I continued to watch him through underneath the visor. As was the case many times in the past, he averted his eyes and looked down and away again, almost solemnly, while I slowly leveled my head and turned calmly back toward the alter. My heart was beating with fright.

                The bridesmaids entered already, tall, beautiful and thin girls…they were all Vivianne's best friends, I believe. They had talked about making me one, even discussed it with me, but we all had to agree that because I was a princess—_the_ princess, in fact, that would seem a bit vulgar. So enter these potential supermodels, with their long, smoky purple dresses and nails, purple lipstick, and an assortment of flamboyant and creamy eyeshadow that accentuated their shade of color, with every other girl showing off their tresses in tight braids, the ones to the right or left of them letting their locks fall loose. They had serene, uncaring expressions on their face, and I wondered if they could ever feel the pain of a needle or the joy of hearing beautiful music.

                When they had all entered, each with her small bouquet of white and silver roses, after a moment, a wave of silence had crept over the guests, and they saw her come through the grand French doors. Like a tribute to the beauty of a single rose, she was a masterpiece of human finery. Her hair had been straightened, and pulled down, dyed a shade of strawberry blonde, as if she suddenly thought those wild curls of hers were too inappropriate for an up and coming queen. Her mouth was red with color—her eyes dark, her expression poised as I've always seen her before (but never of this perspective), and it was so beautiful, so inspiring to someone like me, to view someone in their vibrant and bright halcyon days, never ending, always full of youth.

                Her dress was somewhat demure, which was quite rare in all honesty. It was long and slender, with no sleeves, unless one would count the gloves reeling all the way up to just below her shoulders. There were see-through patches of lace here and there, and a little cleavage, but in truth it was a very ladylike gown. Her bouquet was full of the usual: red and white roses, a little gardenia and leaves, and I wondered…for a queen, she surely wasn't putting on much of a show. But it wasn't necessary. She was gorgeous, a hundred times more than me (what were they thinking, anyway? What's happening to people lately…they're all getting stupider. Nothing like the Chaucers and da Vincis of the past). I didn't look at my father, but I knew he was probably bubbling over with happiness. Someone for him to be completely and permanently absorbed in.

                There was a small, stifling silence that I only knew of, before the priest went ahead with the vows. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…"

                My eyes slowly drifted down to my dainty gloves, playing with the patterns of the lace.

                "…Christ adorned and beautified with his presence and first miracle that he wrought in Cana of Galilee…"

                I watched intensely, yet hollowly: I was numb and special, because I could pretend to pay attention.

                "If any man can show just cause, why they might not lawfully be joined together, let them now speak…"

                My hands clenched my dress fitfully, as hard as they could compress themselves, while I remained serene in the face.

                "…Or forever hold their peace."

                I let go, slowly but surely. The worst was over.

                "You may now kiss the bride."

                Ugh. I turned my head away.

                The mood turned joyous as everyone threw up their hands and clapped. He leaned in and gave her a refined sort of kiss, mouth closed, while they both held smiles so bright it was no secret they were in love, as it was almost taboo to do in any sort of higher state (royalty must never show emotion, it's just too human). Everyone made sounds like "aww" and "ohh," while I only sat there, someone's flawless mannequin who is only present to decorate the benches. I clapped, of course, smiling silently at their happiness, but I wasn't about to melt into a wax pool because of a little public affection. I wondered if anyone else was like that, a little more dignified, reserved.

                When they had exited, rushed out the door as if pursued by something, they all stood up and collected themselves, ready to follow. There were people already outside throwing rice and beads on them, getting a close-up look on these two people they probably had very little relations with, but who really cared, as long as they were happy? I for one waited until most everyone was out, though I had a train of friends surround me like officers, standing as serene as those bridesmaids while people looked on in wonder. Did they know who I was? Did they have any idea at all? Probably…these people weren't stupid. I guessed they either admired or resented me, one of the two, and I had no strength left to be obnoxious.

                A lovely guitar piece was playing as we all exited, and out of the corner of my eye I could see that man conversing with several young, handsome scholarly types just like him, I assume from Nora Collège, a prestigious school I shall be attending next year, but I dared not look directly over there. They would definitely be the last ones leaving, as these talks could go on forever.

                At the reception, everyone danced and laughed and talked and cried—the usual, the vivid emotions expressing a couple's newfound joy were rampant among the guests and attendants alike, their eyes filled with hope for the future yet. I made a speech among champagne and good tidings about how I was thrilled my papa and new stepmother (that word tastes wrong) were finally content in their love life, and when they were all still enjoying themselves way into the night, Vivianne changing her outfits several times and my father suiting into something more sleek, I excused myself, waving goodnight to my friends and the few people that saw me leave (I remained in the background), slipping off to my room to grab _Politique_ from beneath my bed, a gigantic plethora of information, and stealing into the moonlit shadows of the backyard garden.

                I found a bench near another lake, a few acres from the immediate pool and labyrinth, and rested my hat in company by my side. For a minute, I simply watched the water, the dazzling lights of the zenith coming into view—that full, wonderful moon rippling across the surface so surreally. The sky was so dark it was purple, showing each and every constellation and lone star, the planets, the rippling of nearby trees. It even had a few misty, wayfarer clouds in its wake, and although it was icy (I'm sure my nose was devastatingly numb), this was truly a soothing remedy to the pains of my inner heart.

                So it was done. They were married. She was my stepmother the queen, this wonderful and difficult woman, and she would be there forever; I just had to get to love her. I had two handsome brothers, although they surely didn't act that way, and of course let's not forget my father, the abundance of love and joy in my life. It was for him I had made the sacrifice of new strangers in my house, and I would do so much more—walk alone in the hot and foreign sands of the Middle East, swallow razors in a cup of scolding and rancid coffee, even drown myself in the nearest sea if it meant rescuing him or something he loved. I suppose that meant Vivianne too.

                I sighed, but was too frigid to make an actual expression. I didn't like this way of living, though it hadn't even started yet…how was I ever going to make it through? There were going to be strangers in my home—permanently—and maybe Papa was okay with it, but it was just too overbearing for me.

                I left my book and hat where they were and moved toward the water. The shore, much like the sea, was sandy and bare the closer to the lake one moved. Small ripples blew across the surface as a silken sheet one throws to the air, and the wind blew my skin just enough to make me cringe for a blanket. I could feel my hair pleasantly become caught in the infantile gusts, moving up and down as a liberated ribbon. The braids still there were a little less bendable, but they still moved with the motion. I stuck the very tip of my index finger in the icy pool (the gloves I had ditched long ago, since there was no real point to wearing them but decoration, and it wasn't as if I was around people anymore), swiveling it around in some quiet dance even I couldn't hear. The sensors in my body chattered lightly…obviously a miniscule portion of me into these freezing depths wasn't _too_ bad, but I couldn't bring myself to plunge it further, or to stop. Sitting there in the middle of nature, a person in the land that was made for her, haunting thoughts began to fill my mind, thoughts over many different things…where will I be in twenty years…how long can the same lifestyle go on…will I always be happy…alone…not alone…how deep is this lake…how far out does it go…. I suppose it was the sheer fatigue of the day, maybe the swallowing pressure a huge body of water puts on its viewer, or perhaps even both. But whatever it was, I was feeling drained and down; I didn't care for anyone, I didn't even care for myself.

                I edged nearer to the shoreline, plummeting all five fingertips into the water now, playing with the patterns they printed, while a vertigo swept over my form and I felt I had to lay down. I let myself fall back—there was grass again where my head landed, and I rolled my eyes with thoughts of that archetype. I wouldn't play damsel in distress, even for pretend. It was condescending—to have to save anyone…how weak—of course it was all right to depend on others, but the complete lifestyle of, "Oh, somebody save me, help me," was ludicrous. How can you respect someone whose fate hangs in your very hands? That's where these terrible anti-feminists get their points from: people don't act like that, these _damsels_, these women do. Because for a man to be rescued by someone in a dress was a shame.

                If I had this terrible dizziness (which by now had passed), I would make myself crawl to get aid, not someone else. I wouldn't be a martyr, screaming and crying for life to not leave me, while a man feels in his head that he _has_ to save me; he wouldn't be strong if he couldn't.

                Sluggishly, I pushed myself up, putting a hand upon my forehead as if I were drowsy. I was only sad. The hope that was supposed to be there, the hope for a new family, a cavern of love forever, was replaced by something dark and unpromising. Why did I feel more at home away from that place lately, threading through Belle, wanting to escape to the opposite side of the world? It was a terrible feeling.

                An escalating sense of power came over me, and as I rose and turned back to gather my things (it was just too cold to be there), I did a double take at the sight of Julien, staring with some faraway countenance from behind the bench at the distant coast of the lake's other side. His hair had been let down, one side tucked behind his ear, and he was adorned in a long black trench coat; black everything in fact, though I was almost sure his earlier attire was beneath. When I had seen him, his eyes, narrow and brooding like a serpent's, slid slowly to match my stare.

                "Oh, you scared me," I said meagerly, tangibly breathing hesitant odes to the freeze of the night. He said nothing.

                I wanted to run just then, to get away from this man and his sorcery. I wanted no part in whatever he and Vivianne talked of behind closed doors—none of their _plans_. I've always known there was something wrong about him…that creepy but drawing feeling one gets when confronting someone with peculiar ethics. I wanted to step back to normalcy; be around happy, healthy seventeen year olds who swam in the mainstream but didn't dare go further than that.

                But it was too impolite.

                I slowly stalked to the bench, setting my hat atop the book and moving it aside. "I'm sorry. Would you like to sit down?"

                "Ladies first," his voice was quiet and smooth, and his eyes averted distantly to the moon and back. "Unless you're leaving."

                Now's your chance! Take it! Hurry! "I'm not ready to go back just yet." Feeling inadequate somehow, as if I were a cursed doll, I lowered myself helplessly onto the bench.

                Julien took a seat. My hat and book sat between us, and in the cold I shivered reluctantly, keeping my eyes fixed upon the rippling waters, illuminated almost majestically by the bright cosmos above. My eyes darted in his direction (though not exactly to him) once or twice…. How would we both get out of this?

                "My twenty-fourth birthday was yesterday," he began after a moment, unsurprisingly steady and clear. "I spent it in Nora with a few friends. That's why I was late arriving to Alexandre's wedding."

                "I'm sorry, I didn't know. Happy birthday."

                I could feel his glance upon me. "Why should you have known?"

                I looked him straight in his ethereal eyes. I might have been afraid, but I would never let him realize. "I don't know. I don't know anything about you."

                His nod took a thousand seconds. "All in good reason."

                "How so?" Now the ice began to melt, floating into the warmer stream of real conversation. I would never have imagined such a thing with someone like him, even though it really didn't help to fill the uneasy tension our combined presence made, hence the forced coldness of his voice and, my reserved and formal answers.

                "The better anyone keeps his life out of formal affairs, the better it is for everyone."

                "Is that why you always seem the way you do?"

                Slight pause. "The way I do?"

                "Yes…I mean, well, you know. I suppose it is then."

                One side of his mouth curled up into a sly smile. "I know what you mean. There's no reason to be familiar at the castle. I get the job done and leave—really—what's the point otherwise? Although I'm friends with the king, any sort of feeling only gets in the way."

                "You seem to have a negative attitude, rather than none at all." I saw the slight raise of his brow and I added, "Well, because of your expressions mainly. You always seem so irate, even when you've said nothing."

                "Well…I think a lot."

                "Ahh…" I looked down at my lap. "Me too."

                After a moment without words, the quiet sway of the blustery treetops filling in for the sound, I raised my head to the North Star and watched its spherical beauty, letting freezing winds blow my hair like a cape in motion behind me. As uncomfortable as it may have been, the sight was five times what any mural could depict, this reality of splendid loveliness. I looked over to Julien and met his eyes once more. He was warming a gloved hand with his other, facing my direction, and even though his nose and cheeks were rosy from the cold as well, he still looked like a handsome nemesis for any fairy book hero. He decided to change the subject. "I see you're reading up on politics."

"Yes." I gave a regal grin.  "They're quite fascinating, but I must say, it's a crooked profession."

"Maybe so, but all the great intellectuals of history were deeply involved in them. We must be doing something right."

"Maybe it means, that all those great intellectuals are crooked themselves. And sense they're regarded as higher level mortals, we must not have very much to look forward to."

He made some sort of sardonic laughter sound, looking down at the icy grass. "I think the innocent ones are the higher beings."

Somehow I guessed that was meant for me. "Then what is life without experience? You mean to say all of us who aren't innocent, who know things are nothing."

"Not everyone can be a princess. They can't be as highly educated as you. Those are the ones we should be looking up to." 

"The ones that crooked people have to protect? Who have done nothing, good or bad, except to try?" I shook my head. "That's too much a paradox."

"Yes. But that's how it is."

After a pensive moment I let a wry grin slip. "It seems like everyone is doomed on this planet."

Julien's fingers clasped together. "Oh well."

The conversation was going back to chilling for some reason. I sighed. "So I suppose you're quite acquainted with reading the wide world of political literature."

He looked at me queerly. "It's all I ever read."

"All? No poetry, no horror or fantasy?"

"Only when I feel numb."

"As in out of your skin." He nodded. "I know how it is. Sometimes I feel I'm completely alone here."

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the cold blow his anguished face to crimson. "And yet you have three more family members now."

                "I suppose so."

                He watched me. "I wouldn't consider them family either."

                My head spun sharply. "What makes you think I don't?"

                He laughed. "For one thing, those sons of hers. One clueless, one lewd—"

                "Excuse me? Lewd?"

                "Of course." He was gaining his confident eyes now, the ones he used with virtually everyone as I've observed—except on this occasion.

                "All men act like that," I rose an eyebrow, stiffening with cold as I wrapped my arms around my stomach. "They're either all over women or they hate them. That doesn't mean he's a lecher." I had noticed he removed his coat, now handing it to me. I was right; it was still the same outfit. 

I took it hesitantly. "Thank you."

                "So you're defending him."

                "It wouldn't be right to talk about him that way. He hasn't done anything directly."

                "And what of Vivianne?"

                My eyes slowly dropped to the pink frill of my hat. I had slipped the coat over my frame quickly; it was very baggy and very warm, but now I didn't feel right in it. My inner struggle became visible as I beat against the back of the bench, cocking my head a little. I couldn't go on like this. "Listen…Julien…" I took a deep breath. "I saw both of you a few weeks ago. She was asking you who was the most beautiful in Ange Beau…and, I saw your magic." I looked at him for an instant, and not being able to bear it, turned to watch the lake again. Another soundless sixty seconds.

                "I know."

                I turned, stunned. _Mon dieu! Oh no… _"Does Vivianne?"

                He waited a moment, stunning eyes fixed securely on my own—he was trying to make me sweat—and just before it became too long he gave me a close-mouthed grin that seemed almost genuine. "No."

                I couldn't reciprocate. I shook my head as my lips parted with something not unlike revulsion. My voice was low. "What was that?"

                "Vivianne simply wanted to know who was the most beautiful. I have the ability to tell her that, so I did."

                "But, Julien, beauty will fade with each person. Why does something so shallow matter so much? I thought she was more sensible than that."

                "Well…what makes you think it's outward beauty?"

                In spite of myself I almost laughed. "I think neither of us would be eligible for _that_ title."

                His chuckle was rich.

                "Seriously."

                His smile faded with a new type of mask. "No. You're wrong. Princess."

                My brows furrowed. "Julien—"

                "I think you should know," he spoke, resolved and fraught in his perfect posture, "that I would do anything for you, Nicolette. Despite who I am. Because you are truly beautiful."

                He rose to exit.

                "What makes you think that I'm anything more than a spoiled princess?"

                He glanced down to face me, still dressed in his dark garment. "Because I've watched you grow, ever since I came here. And I know more about your character than you could ever…" He collected himself, though I felt no break, no anguish in his words. "But what I came to tell you was to stay away from Vivianne. She doesn't like you at all. Whether she loves you or not is another matter, but she loathes you." He turned to leave.

                "Wait."

                He was already on his trek back to the castle.

                "Wait!"

            My regal shout so affected him that he turned back, and neither he nor I actually realized I was running toward him, the long coat and my full skirts rushing madly behind me, until I landed in his arms, holding on as if I were to fall into an endless hole of space, with lips locked and Julien falling against a frozen cherry tree for support. His skin was cold yet his mouth was warm—I'm sure mine was the same—and it gave me even more of a rush, perhaps because it was the only heated ventilation on these damned grounds. His shoulder muscles tensed with ardor, his hold became stronger once he found himself in the moment, and I sensed he shared the same strange stunned feeling in his stomach that was growing in my own. I literally couldn't move…I was hanging there, immobilized, deep in a ghostly spell and yet, my paralysis didn't come unwanted. Somehow, I was fine where I was; numb in the moment. None of these family matters crept my way, no worries, no pain. All there was was this kiss.


	5. La Chasse

_"And then," said the boy, training his little sister well in the art of storytelling, "the princess went against her warning and opened the door to her mean old stepmother, disguised as a hag, a third time." "Oh, but that doesn't make sense," said the little girl. "Who would be that stupid?" "Well," the boy remarked with a smile, "under certain pretenses, you don't think clearly and do things, well, you normally wouldn't do." She made a sour face. "But **I** would know not to repeat a mistake, especially twice."_

_                "And that's the difference between you and her."_

                Sunrise. Cold wind. Warm skin…something soft against my body: the grand mattress made to feel as though a stream of water surrounded your every limb and wrapped you in its sheath…oh, what a nice emotion! And the blankets, those thick, wooly things used in almost everyone's house during an icy yet beautiful Ange Beau winter.

                My head was halfway submerged in the wide pillows, one eye completely shielded by the padding, the other lazily opening to a nameless room on the third floor, east wing. Or maybe it was the second floor, seventh corridor. I don't remember…whatever it was, I was a little surprised that maids still regularly cleaned in here. They must either really be dedicated, or there were a lot more than I thought to keep this gigantic home so spic and span.

                My hand began stroking something soft and airy, and I raised my head to view the rays of sunshine from the above window come around Julien's hair in an angelic touch. The early morning light wasn't very bright or bold, but at least it was enough to make me smile, watching this blue-eyed Adonis in slumber. If we were to look on these superficial terms again—who's the most beautiful in the land? Physically? Mentally? Is it me? —I would definitely be sure he was in the top ten. Not only was he so handsome; a true fallen angel, but his inner soul was as deep as la Méditerranée trench.

                My arms were wrapped around his body, his cheek pressed close against my breast in a pseudo-matronly fashion, and in the night he had coiled his own grasp around my waist and held me close. The sweet air gave me an exhilarated sense deep within my stomach, and I took a heavy and longing breath at the thought of returning to a peaceful dream. And then I realized: it couldn't get any more blissful than this.

                "Julien…" I whispered quietly, as my lips met his blond hair and softly, I caressed him. I had a feeling this was real happiness—nothing fanciful or energetic, just the quiet, simple pleasure of a winter's morning. I breathed his name again, this time lightly shaking his somniferous form. He made some movement with his head, slightly tipping it and inhaling a long, luxurious bout of oxygen, then smiling in his sleep, eyes closed, while stretching out his body and nuzzling into my skin, as though I were a pillow he could always use.

                After a moment, while I simply watched, quietly interested, he very slowly opened his eyes, gazing curiously at my smile and moving up to my honey-hued irises. For a time he only watched me, cogitating, with his hand pressed steadily against my back, as though I might fly away if he should let go. I was becoming enthralled in his sky blue orbs, wondering how such a man deserved this gift of unique beauty. He must really be something in God's eyes, as he was in mine, and if one person should make it into Heaven, he would definitely be the first choice of all things wise. He leaned in and uttered my name.

                I grinned blithely, leaning even more into the pillow, which tightened his grip. "Good day, Monsieur."

                "Good day," he replied, showing only a half of mirth in his eyes. I was too far compressed to notice his mouth, though there was some type of sarcasm to what I could see when he added, "princess."

                "Mmm…" I closed my eyes, kissing his hair and pulling him closer. With this amount of space, it's a wonder we were so bound together. Though somehow I didn't mind. "Did you sleep well?"

                "Of course. I was dreaming about you." He raised his head and smiled effulgently. His eyes glowed brilliantly. "I was the king of Ange Beau, but you weren't my daughter, you were my queen."

                My stomach curtailed with some anxious sense for just an instant, though it was suddenly gone, and I laughed as though I were still high on coca. "So you were my father, and I was Vivianne."

                "Yes, and you ran to me like that a thousand times. But it never grew old—in fact, I enjoyed it more with each growing count." He paused, pushing himself up to put his hand against my merry cheek.

                I chuckled and lifted an eyebrow—"And why are you having dreams about ruling Ange Beau, Monsieur?"

                His smirk was sensual, as smirks often are. "Just a pipe dream, I suppose." He brushed a few strands of hair away from my eyes. "But you, Nicolette. You don't seem like the average person…you seem to want to change things."

                "Yes I do. Because I'm able to." His hands were around my face. "I've achieved the most difficult part of any sort of activist or political trade…establishing a position—my position as daughter of this land's ruler—so that people will listen." 

                He stared at me for a long moment. His eyes were shining bright, but again, he held no emotion I could easily recognize. Just pure and unadulterated scrutiny.

                "It was nice being with you, Julien." I lifted his chin with my fingers, grinning at his lovely skin. He isn't the tannest person in the world, but he's surely darker than me. "I'm glad we found each other."

                He took hold of my hand. "I want to be with you. But how can we?" He glanced me up and down. "Without a lot of sneaking around."

                "You're with me right now, aren't you?"

                He nodded. "For the moment."

                After we embraced again, some ten minutes drawing by (in which I was reminded of a beautiful song I once heard, where the girl begs her lover to turn away before she becomes too distant to continue their relationship), I finally decided it was time to meet my new family for the day. Julien had given me the strength to get through this—he would be right there beside me as a friend, and maybe, since we talked about being always together, I wouldn't have to see them as much.

                "Come on…let's go to breakfast." I sat up, tickling his Adam's apple while his smile turned sensual. Playfully, I slowly maneuvered the thin top blanket, made of bloody red silk, to fit around my body as a dress, while he was too lazy to reach for the other coverings and thus was forced to raise and sit in front of me without even the barest cloth to his name. I started chuckling, and soon he joined in: my light and lilting laugh over his low one, and I couldn't help thinking of the absurdity if people only knew. We would make a good couple—I mean, we were of the right age and status, we complimented one another in appearance, and our intellect and humor were of relatively the same level. Maybe they had already matched us up in their minds as potential lovers.

                I rose in the wrapping, backing up enticingly, all the while trying to keep my head from going straight to the clouds. He sprung forward to snatch his clothes from the ground, and when he had them, covering all vital parts as if I weren't the only one in the room, he moved forward with each step I took in reverse. Finally he was close enough to grab me to him, and I laughed with surprise as he swung me around, blanket still attached, while his clothes had once again fallen in heaps on the floor. He spun me past the window and I stopped in sound, immediately fascinated by the white wonderland that had sprung up on the palace grounds. There was snow everywhere; falling from the serene gray sky to the frosty and glorious icicles against the glass and trees. I had never seen something so beautiful—and to think, straight after _my_ birthday there was a warming period, while now, soon following my happiness, Heaven had frozen over.

I stole to my room soon after to put on a long, fitting white nightgown and robe. It was only seven-fifty, although it was hard to believe I had woken so early. Julien assumed his formal attire from the day before, and when we entered the banquet hall at eight o'clock and ten, trying hard to conceal smiles (but to no avail), Vivianne looked up from her place next to my father, startled, and soon her catching glance, like a serpent that realizes he's been cheated out of his food, grew to a piercing, stunned watch as she looked from Julien to me to him again. Her eyebrow rose to meet her hairline, and she appeared completely horrified.

"Nicolette!" my father said in good spirits, midway pouring coffee into a silver mug. He had a healthy glow—not only in his complexion, but his finely brushed raven hair and jovial eyes. He saw nothing of his wife's cold stillness, and her sons, since involved in some independent conversation, looked at us both in a mix of curiosity, and in Nicolas's case, envy. "I was wondering where you disappeared to last night. I thought you had finally gotten lost here after all these years."

"Oh papa," I grinned merrily and strutted over to him, ignoring Vivianne's deathly gaze on Julien. I kissed him on the cheek, hugging my arms around his neck. "I was very tired last night, and I wanted to get ahead on _Politique_. It's very interesting, no? Oh, you are a husband now!" I turned to the shrew, "And you are a wife!" Her head swung toward me, so we were face-to-face, inches apart. "I wish the best for both of you."

Silent, she smiled. "You are my daughter now."

And I said nothing, seeing a rare aspect of sincerity in her eyes.

My father put his hand on my arm (still around him) and said, "And Julien, you slept here too? I would have fixed a grand room for you had you let me know. I hope the night was bearable?"

He nodded, formalities in every pore. "I slept very well, thank you. I didn't feel the road was safe to venture back alone."

"I've always told you to stay more often. You're a valuable asset, and even more of a friend."

This hurt Julien so much it wounded me.

"And Monsieur Lacroix," Vivianne fixed her attention on the blond one again, "you vanished from our company last night as well. Were you tired?"

"Very." Their eyes were throwing daggers, and I knew immediately they were communicating through something other than words. "I couldn't keep my eyes open. I would never miss such an important wedding, but after that, I'm afraid I had to back out." He nodded toward me, and my heart skipped a beat. "I met la princesse in the halls this morning, and sharing the same experience, we just now entered."

"Well please, take a seat and join us," my father was ecstatic; absolutely on cloud nine, while all others went hesitantly back to their own conversations. I wonder now just how many people realized we were together.

I sat across from Louis, mon ange taking his place beside me, parallel to a statuesque Nicolas. What was his problem? He looked as though we were vile nighttime creatures that should strike if he moved. I'm certain he knew what was up, but why should that matter? I didn't care—I didn't care if everyone knew just then. We had the whole world ahead of us, and we could do as we pleased. Youth has such follies!

"So the hunting trip is still on today?" my father's smooth voice began with the passing of very colorful and mouth-watering types of food. I was never a big eater, but was pleased to know that whatever left over on my plate made a nice change for all the animals running around on the grounds. That feeling of sharing, as morally zealous as it sounds, really gives me a good sentiment inside.

"Yes, it is," said Nicolas, focusing his attention on someone that actually 'deserved' it. "Though many cancelled due to the snow."

"Ahh, yet it's so beautiful. It's been unusually warm this winter." The weather never fails to keep up a decent conversation.

I had turned my interest to watching Julien cut the sausage on his plate, those perfect lines and the way he could split them with one strike. I had never seen any one manage their food so well. Playfully, I interjected my hands onto his utensils, looking at him in a _this is how one does it_ sort of way, and daintily began carving it. "I know. I don't see why someone should call it off because of that. Doesn't that sort of defeat the purpose of hunting? It's to prove how strong you are, yet somehow snow gets in your way." Everyone, including Julien, laughed. I had a hard time working at it, from the angle I was sitting; I sort of had to bend my body to get past Julien's, and I couldn't see it properly, so the cuts were zigzagged and a poor spectacle. On a particularly thick part, I ripped the knife across, using my whole upper half as strength, and gruntingly (yet silently) pushed it back up, which made my hair fall to one side. "…And the wolves are particularly savvy to their predators, so I always had to make sure…" I glanced at Julien, who was watching me with a pursed, quivering smile, trying his hardest not to make a sound, and I opened my mouth to let out a voiceless chortle while brushing my locks back behind me.

"But what other hunters are there available on such short notice? We can't have just anybody running around." Louis sounded a lot more intellectual when he actually said a full sentence. I had suppressed my giggling and now only smiled, while still using his fork to feed the 'ready' product to him. I put my fingers beneath his chin as he took the bite, but refused to give up the fork, holding it fast with his teeth. I gracefully steered it left to right, making sure not to give him a headache, until it was finally out, and when I picked up another bit, I held it right in front of him, taking pleasure as he snapped his teeth at my hand. He finally grabbed hold of it and swallowed, but some of the syrup and tragically fallen to right below his full lower lip. I shook my head with glee at his trouble, and with my fourth finger had wiped it away and put it in my own mouth. I then used the utensil to point to different foods, he shook his head at all of them, and very slowly, I turned it on myself. He nodded.

Vivianne cleared her throat, and it was then that I realized we were the objects of many eyes. I stopped, glanced quickly over them all (my father's mouth was slightly open; he must have stopped midway in speech), and said nonchalantly, "Oh. Monsieur Lacroix has just informed me, since I'm the closest one and most available for help, that he is very bad at cutting sausage. I gladly did it for him, and just to be on the safe side, made sure he knew how to consume it properly. I suppose we're all still in that heady, holiday spirit…" The last word was forced out, for I almost began chuckling uncontrollably until I smacked his side to stop. "One always has to make sure. You were saying?"

She lowered her head. Green, woodland eyes pierced my skin to an ache and she spoke loud and clear, "You're father says that _you_, Nicolette, can hunt. Is this true?"

All the joy that was in my body had been shot away, and I stared blankly at Papa, viewing quick images of bullets and animals in my head. "Yes, I have hunted before."

"This is perfect!" she clapped her hands merrily. Her smile was irksome. "A true feminist you are. You can accompany your new siblings and the others on their chase. What a magnificent way to bond!"

"Oh…" I wanted to spend the day with Julien, walking through a blissful white Belle, getting to know him even more, simply holding his hand, but right beneath that was the sheer reluctance to kill. I hated hunting. I wasn't bad at it; I had pretty good aim and patience, but as far as severing in those what was given to them by God—well—how could we have that right? "I would like to—really I would, but I don't think I'll be joining you. I was hoping to go to the city today…you know, to enjoy the snow and relax. Hunting is so hectic."

"Would you at least consider it?" my father cut in seriously, his brown eyes focusing only lightly on me. He kept watching Julien, but without the former amiability. "They can't go without one more person, and you _are_ very skilled in this sort of thing. You can go to Belle anytime."

An alarm went off in my brain. I had surely blown it now—what was I to do? I glanced at all of them—they were studying us so intimately again, as if we were set up on a platter to pick apart and examine. I hated this; the Lord knows I hated this so very much, I could die…but I had to at least attempt to make things right. I sighed, staring down at the breakfast I hadn't touched. I wouldn't regain my appetite for a long while now. "You're right. Okay, I'll go hunting instead." Vivianne raised her head with a triumphant smile, and my father simply nodded. "Wonderful." His eyes flickered to mon ange. "You, my noble youth, may take the rest of the day off. See that you get some rest."

I suppose if he had to pick a suitor for his daughter, out of all the aristocrats and acceptable young men in the land, he was glad it was someone like him. 

When everyone had finished and it was time to leave, Vivianne beckoned her two sons to her for a 'private' word. I was at the opposite wall, near the door, so I couldn't hear, but she made many motions with her hands, over her face and hair, during which Louis smoothed his bangs and straightened his collar and sleeves. Even telling her own offspring he was slacking; that must have hurt. Soon enough I was outside talking with Papa and one of the council gentleman just arrived from the cold world outside, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Julien lingering in the archway, discreetly trying to pick up on their words. Whatever it was, she had shielded herself strongly from his thoughts, and she did it on purpose…I could tell, it was driving him crazy.

Five minutes later I was halfway to my room at the southwest wing of the second floor, when he intercepted me from a random corridor. I gasped and paused, then shut my eyes with irritated relief and asked, "How could you get here so fast? Mon Dieu, sometimes I can't understand you."

Ignoring that, he took my arm and led me to him, against the corner of the wall, and as quietly as if someone were listening in—and they very well might have—he whispered, "You shouldn't go hunting today."

I made no expression. "Neither do I. But I really need to do this, to stay in everyone's good graces and…_bond_," I let the word out; it sounded strange to me. "Everyone knows, Julien."

"Perhaps they don't…" He spoke immediately and with forced hope, eyes pleading with me, and right then I almost agreed to do whatever he said. But I thank my parents for giving me stronger genes than to melt in the arms of a handsome boy.

"Are you kidding? Were you _not_ at breakfast with me? Everyone knows! It couldn't possibly work in our favor to spend the day together, even though I desperately want to…"

"It's just that," he began, leaning his head against the wall in distress, and he spoke so softly I could barely hear him. His voice had never risen about a murmur this whole time, and I was beginning to feel uncouth, using a normal volume and all. "I don't feel right about it." He squeezed my hands in that same, insecure manner. "I don't trust them, any of them. And Vivianne is planning something; I know it."

"Do you mean that conversation?" He nodded. "I'm sure it was nothing important. Positively certain, in fact."

"Just please…" He closed his eyes out of hopelessness. One of his hands went up to harshly scrub an eyebrow; a sign of his gaining distress. "Tell them you can't go—tell them you're sick or tired or, or _something_, anything. There's no one in the forest you can get help from if something should happen, I'd rather be apart from you knowing you're safe in the castle then worrying what will become of you there—"

"I can get help from the others—"

"I'm sure they're in on it too."

"In on _what_, Julien?" I was exasperated by his overprotection; I wanted nothing more than to cease his worrying, but this was getting ridiculous.

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Then please…" I stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, delicately taking his face in my hands. He refused to look at me, but I wouldn't take no for an answer. I finally got him to focus his diamond eyes on my own, and I whispered, "We just had one night together, Julien. It's not as if the world sinned. They wouldn't kill me over it." I smiled, "Is there anything—besides me not going, that can secure your belief in that?"

For a moment he didn't move; just simply watched me, trying to tame his breaking heart. I had a real sense of control and agony…is this what I wanted? Couldn't I just have easily gone to my father, said, "Look, daddy, I love you so much, so I think you should know that Julien and I have a thing together, and I'm not going hunting. Oh, I can't stand Vivianne (just had to throw that in, it IS a fantasy, after all)." Why did I have to feel I had to prove him wrong? Was it a defense mechanism—something for me to control in this capricious affair, or was it a true feeling of inclination toward a fake reality where I'll be okay?

"Wait…I know." I pulled a single hair from my head, a long and lilting brunette strand, and tied it around his wrist. My eyes found his with an excited electricity. "If this is all you see of me within twenty-four hours—"

"I'll come looking for you." We both smiled.

The chirping and quiet movements of winter animals throughout the trees caught and held my attention for the time being. The morning was young, and this innate, eager feeling wouldn't go away inside my stomach. That cold wind, softened by the exquisite beauty of the snow, contrasted to my liking with my milk-colored skin and warm threads. I had chosen to be decorative today—yes, I realize more often than not I dress in that manner, but there _are_ a few times when I'm fed up with life and choose to go demure.

Anyway, I wore a style I had wanted to try out for a long time. It was relatively new, though until now I never had a good occasion to conduct a test run. My riding skirts, with the bustles on each side and behind me, were made of piercing blue denim, and I liked that rugged feel mixed with attractiveness. The overcoat I wore for outside purposes, which came down to about mid-thigh, buttoned only three times in the middle of my stomach, which left room for an off-white neckerchief covering cleavage and a small view of my camisole. It was a very warm overcoat, very stylish; it was acid-washed in _green_ denim this time, and although the colors were different, the shades were the same. The shirt beneath was just plain white with lace trim and a pale pink ribbon…it was sleeveless, but I was perfectly comfortable with the heat provided. My boots were soft pearl-colored, laced up to just past my ankle, and my hair was swept into a high ponytail, hiding almost completely over my denim-like taffeta hat. I wore only tiny blue hoop earrings; I didn't want to mar the job with fashion setbacks, and the frills around my wrists were small and efficient…well, for lack of a better word. Past that, my mother's dazzling purple jewel hung securely. I felt elegant yet practical, with my rifle in hand and my precious white horse, Adea, beneath me. It was a good day.

"We start as soon as everyone's ready," a young man with a beard announced, holding the pack of dogs that were writhing to scope their targets out. We were all in a circle, more or less, checking guns and making last minute preparations. I rode speaking with Louis the whole time—he's really very nice. I enjoyed listening as he talked of his merits at school back home. It turns out he wasn't a dunce or anything of the sort at all—well, he may have been clueless when it came to the opposite sex, but that's to be found in many boys across the globe. He asked me whether I planned to attend college: I confirmed this completely, and it brought in a whole other set of reasons as to why he thinks everyone should have the right to an education. Being the only girl there, and an important one, no less, I found he was the only other hunter I now felt comfortable being around. I stuck close beside him.

In a moment, one of the men cleared his throat from subtle impatience, and the leader nodded and said, "Then let's begin! Shoot whatever you think is necessary—foxes, deer, the wolves," he looked at me for a moment, as if the only way for me to get away from one was to shoot it, "and if anyone needs any help, call on your fellow hunters." When they were all meditating on this, I pulled on the reigns of my horse and turned around, giving a quick, noble look at everyone. I wasn't playing the helpless female today.

"So…let's go." He released the dogs.

We all spread out, some in packs of three or four; some as bare as one, as was my case, to see what animals we could slay. The trees were thick and icy with frost, glistening in the different angles, so I was reminded of a great glass forest; a magical place I had fallen into and never could find my way out. There was a slight fog, but nothing bad, as I could see clear enough. All the other hunters had disappeared…it was only nature and me. Nature versus me? No…that was what they wanted me to conform to, of course, but I wasn't against it; I never was. I was simply playing a part to keep up society, and as long as I realized that, I would remain the most faithful friend.

I came to a small clearing; a grove, really, and dismounted Adea. It was time to go off on my own or the foxes would never come.

I felt odd walking past the trees—the sticks—alone, their thick stumps and tall statures making me feel as small yet as significant as a woodland fairy, and something about the gun in my hand made me want to throw myself down and scream for God to have mercy. But I remained calm; wary, out to kill. Adea whinnied; I turned: was something there? Maybe I should have gone back…no…no, I kept walking. The greenery, like my jacket, was faded and hidden beneath layers of hoary silk, and once again I got some strange pleasure from gingerly gasping to see my own breath.

I crossed a little stream in the forest, larger than me of course, but it was a mere baby compared to the colossal size of all other things, those pale green ribbons running into the sky, their leaves all gone and their color softened because of the snow. The water was halfway frozen over, with little shards of ice coursing through a wet ravine as though it were anatomy. I found a semi-bridge, really only a darting bank, small enough for me to hop over, and when I landed immediately afterward I heard a sharp rustle from a large and parallel bush, as if my presence disturbed the very flow of the woods and by moving brashly I had sparked uneasy attention.

I cocked my gun fast, the clicking sound so piercing, it was a wonder the whole land couldn't hear it, and I paused to see if I could actually view the animal, then darting to both sides and, finally behind me. Nothing at all, and the only noise to accompany my breathing was the stream's quiet whispers of question: what was I doing here?

When I turned back around, my heart skipped with surprise, and I almost dropped the weapon in the water and ran. A wolf had come out from the brush, with a snowy, glistening coat, and the prize animal of its pack if I ever saw one. His eyes, large and dark, blazed with a kind of quiet intensity, like a fire that hid behind some furnace wall. His mouth was open and smiling, sharp teeth involuntarily producing a demure amount of saliva, enjoying the cold weather and my shaking frame, and his body sprawled out long enough to cover a decent amount of foliage not ten feet away. I waited. He had the chance to attack me—the question was only when. Maybe when he lunged at me I could raise the rifle fast enough to blow him away point-blank, but I would have to be sharp about it; the timing was crucial. I kept my eyes firmly on his, not provoking it—not raising even the slightest hair on my eyebrow, and in such a sluggish manner, I discreetly moved my hand over the relaxed trigger. It stood by my side, waiting…waiting….

After a moment, it began to seem tedious, all this delaying, and I was almost sure it wasn't going to attack me…unless provoked by some means. At first I tried breathing heavily, glowering from beneath my hat, but its relaxed stance changed not a bit. I took a step back, and then a step forward, trying different things, but it only licked its paws and continued to smile. After doing quick, odd movements to get an effect, as the dogs at the palace seem so apt to respond, I became bold: I raised my rifle, shutting an eye for focus and moved my hand over the trigger. Juxtaposing harsh intentions it covered its eyes with a paw and whimpered before sitting up again, out of pantomime.

I lifted my head for a moment. This was quite something else…what was I to do? There was no sport in any of it. It wouldn't even attempt to put up a fight, as if the whole world was against women and their intelligence to fire a bullet. But I had the rifle, and surely it knew its life was in my hands. And it was a wolf, for the Lord's sake! Why didn't it attack me? I screamed at it from behind my brain: attack me! Give me some justification for blowing your brains out and putting your severed head upon a wall! 

Almost grudgingly, I lowered myself into the stance again, taking my time to make sure nothing but perfect aim would pass. I pointed it straight between the relenting eyes, ready to fire, but then I moved it out and out again to make sure I could easily position the barrel to my liking. Even that was finished, in some five minutes, when I could no longer fool myself into thinking I had bad aim. I sighed longingly, moving my hand over the trigger for a final time. One…two…

An earsplitting bang like a sharp mosquito bite whipped through my head, and I almost dropped the weapon from shock. The wolf remained intact; it hadn't been me who fired, but at that one point I was so devastated, it was ghostly to see the animal prick up its ears and face the specific direction—the direction I had come from—of the gun.

After my horror subsided, shriveling gradually to a little ball in my stomach like a dark weed, I turned back to the white god, and considering its simple greatness, its ironic magnanimity at being so stupid—so brave in defying the barrel of a gun, that I began to wonder…maybe I really had shot at it.

I took a step back, another, and another…it didn't follow. I turned. It stayed the same. Maybe another time…this wasn't meant to be.

I hopped over the ravine and hurried away.

Once out of view of the animal, blocked off by massive walls of bushes and brushes and what have you, I slowed my pace to a walk. The snow was lightly falling again, each little flake simply glowing with splendor. The oddness of this scenario plagued my existence with a sort of anxious wonder, and this white dust had only livened the possibilities. But wait…possibilities of what? Of the good that will come now that I had spared it? I couldn't have shot it if I wanted to—and believe me, I did. I wanted to so badly, yet a certain intangible force held my finger captive, not letting it push in the trigger, not giving me legal justification to kill it. I kind of felt like a good person afterwards, though there was no reason for that. Shooting it would have made me a bad person, but not doing gave me no cause for sainthood.

I approached the original site where I had dismounted, excited and in a state of anomalous bewilderment. Woman, man, the trees, the snow, the air, the blood in all of life's veins—we all seemed so alive. There was Nicolas, animatedly fiddling with his rifle, back turned toward me. He had found his way here by my animal's call, no doubt. Through a dense set of leaves covering most of the scenery, I could just detect Louis as well. My family. I took a deep breath and converted my energy into pleasant words, smiling as I strutted in. "So what did you guys catch?" Nicolas abruptly turned around at the first letter spoken. "Something handsome, I hope. I have no doubt that an experienced…" 

My mouth had barely formed the _h_ in 'hunter' as I glanced off at the ground, with casual intentions at first, to view the bloody mess of what had once been a glorious stallion. I could feel my smile shrink to astonishment. The red grotesqueness of the liquid was subtly approaching my feet, and out of frozen shock the rifle slipped from my hand and landed with a muffled thud against the wine-colored snow. "Nicolette, Nicolette I'm so sorry!" Louis was repeating over and over again, attractive handgun still smoking, but I could barely hear him. Even his pleading blue eyes had no effect on my catatonia. The horror had tethered me.

The click of a nearby hammer pulled something deep from inside me. I told myself, from whatever small voice within, that if I didn't focus, I was going to die.

With the rest of my body unmoving, I turned my head slightly; just enough to face Nicolas, who was pointing the barrel of his silver firearm directly at my face. Why was this happening…God, what did I do wrong? I'm sorry, I should have listened to Julien. I should have listened. We were about two yards apart, my brother and I, definitely close enough for him to fire point-blank. I was aware of my frame starting to convulse, but in a sense I didn't really feel it…as if I were standing right next to me, putting a hand on my arm and only getting the barest sensation of what it was like. He said in a very matter-of-fact tone, "I'm going to kill you. I have to bring proof that I did: your heart. But I'll make it painless. I don't want you to feel that pain."

I worked my lips, dry, soaking up all the liquid offered in preparation for the afterworld. "Why do I have to die…?" It came out weak and meager; a sad sight for the last words of a princess. That hidden voice pounded in my ears again and I said louder, as loud and as noble as I could without shouting, "Who told you to kill me?"

"It's none of your concern." He moved his hand up the body, destined toward the trigger.  
                "I believe it _is_ of my concern," I clenched my fists and spoke furiously, not giving him a chance to get on with his actions. "I'm about to die. Was it your mother? Was it that damned cow? Was she not strong enough to approach me herself, was she too afraid and made her thugs of sons do it for her—"

"You know nothing!" he cried lividly, racing toward the trigger. I threw my hands up capriciously and pulled at my hair, causing my hat to fall off and loose strands to go everywhere. "You're insane, you're completely insane don't _kill_ somebody!" I was screaming with passion, seeing my life flash in front of my eyes. No one would know. Julien would know.

"You're too much for this world. It would have come sooner or later." His hand was securely on the trigger, and horrified, I watched him with silent relinquishment, not pondering whether I should take that as a compliment or not. Goodbye world.

In the next second I saw my horse, sweet Adea, running a track so fast, her white mane looked a part of the wind. A shot sounded—that same one used to kill her, and it wasn't until the next instant that I realized the wolf—my would-be game—had thrown itself at Nicolas, and the trigger had definitely been pressed, but the barrel had been pointed upward toward the obscure canopy when he was pushed backward. It was snarling and snapping as he slammed the gun against it and tried focusing on me again. I could only think of one thing: to run, as hard and as fast as I could, to be attacked by whipping branches and sharp sticks and plants protruding from the underbrush, to jump over streams and slide under archways, to trip often in my slippery and ill-equipped shoes, but to pick myself up again, dirt-stained and all, and continue headlong up the path. I heard gunshots in the distance; I pushed harder. I heard distant shouts and yells of promise…from the other hunters, maybe? I'm sure they were trying to find me—I never once relented. The cramp in my side started small and ominous, making a less than welcomed companion, but then grew larger and larger with pleas and threats—anything to rest just for a second, but even slowing down was out of the question. I had to escape these heathens. My hair had come down now, flowing all around me and mussed from sweat and being compressed, and I'm sure the snowflakes dotting my dark tresses—matched with the scratches I was receiving on my hands and the holes in my coat—made for a haunting depiction.

I ran through endless obstacles, sparked by that will to live, for so long. It must have been thirty more minutes that I traveled through the forest, getting into the thicker parts where the sky was consumed. Through little patches one could see the gray clouds continually producing the snowstorm, but it was rightfully less abundant here—the tops of the trees stopped most of it. Ferns and strange, frosty little flowers, pale pink ones with red frames about them could be seen, and more rocks in my way and a hilly terrain—in fact—I kept going all the way to a large drop, something like a mound, and I couldn't stop myself, so I was forced to either keep running at this lightning pace, ever gaining, or fall and surely receive at least one broken bone. At the bottom, as I was approaching a stream of fallen leaves come down from the hill, I finally let myself crash and slide from all the momentum I was building up, right until there was flat land again and I could actually feel all the aches and cramps I had assailed on my body. Promptly I buried my face in my hands, pressed against the forest floor, and wept from all the turmoil. It was only a for a moment—I would have cried for longer than I'm proud to mention, but the throbbing pain in my stomach expanded monster-size now that I stopped, churning in a green sea of nausea, and I sat up with severed tears and that dreaded feeling. The chalk-white tie was still hanging on my hair by the end of one part, and I gathered all my locks backward before turning round to do something I hadn't done in very long time.

Afterwards, I felt so horrible, sitting there all alone, beaten, bruised, almost killed. That word 'almost' is so important…I had escaped a surefire death, and I was lucky just to be able to breathe another second of air, even if at the time I didn't realize it. The tears began gushing again, almost of their own will, but I had at least calmed myself down enough to be able to think about other things. Now…how was I going to get out of this mess? If I went back to the castle, they would kill me!—but if I went back to Julien…maybe he would confront my father on behalf of Vivianne, or maybe we would move away entirely so I would be safe and gone from their presence. But I couldn't go back…not just now anyway. She's expecting only my heart to return—and how horrible an ogre her mind must be! I clenched my left breast with the sheer thought of it.

But then…where would I go for a 'while'? I couldn't survive without some sort of shelter, especially in the winter. I could find a cave, maybe…ugh…or stay with a family out in the country—I'm sure they'd be honored to have their princess live with them, but…if there's a reward on my head they might turn to that instead…maybe if I disguised myself, or just said I _looked_ like her if they asked. But where was the country? Where was anything! I was alone, in the woods, in the snow. I didn't know which way was north or south, just the fact that I was lost and lonely. I had no one—no one—except myself to depend on.

Wait a moment…

Julien! He knew—he _knew_ I was in danger. He knew they were against me. He said if I wasn't back in twenty-four hours, he would come. I had a savior! I almost cried with joy at the thought. I was excited again—my love was coming for me.

So now I just had to find a very temporary shelter. Something to keep me warm for a while; nothing special, and that would be that. It was so much easier said than done though, where exactly could I go? 

A dim blue light began to take over the atmosphere, this frigid and isolated woodland. I wondered what time it was…probably early afternoon by now, but nowhere near the time the sun was supposed to set. Hell's winter must have really taken its toll on the earth.

I coughed (God, please don't let me take ill after all that!) and pulled my hair back down so it all fell in my face, exhausted, damp, and although I felt that irrepressible dirty feeling, it provided vital extra warmth that I had to conserve now, with no rescue party by my side. I'm sure I looked a mess, but I was in no position to care. I was a bleak girl in a bleak environment, destined to wait for salvation in a quiet blizzard, without even the vaguest idea of what had went on. All I knew was Vivianne: she was my enemy, that horrible wretch, and I would get her back.

I lay at the foot of the mountain for a while, trying to find patches of sky between the dark and distant canopies, while the cold hurt my nose, almost as uncomfortable as the snow for my bed. I attempted to keep warm by hugging myself into my jacket, undoing the buttons and then pulling it as tightly as I could around me. At least I still had that. And as I turned to focus on a nearby, broken tree branch, my thoughts began to drift with ideas of death—of a princess dying on the frozen forest floor like this, how much of a scandal that would be to society, what Julien would feel, what my papa would think…monarchs are supposed to die beautiful deaths, something fit for a wedding. But this…only nameless vagabonds perish as such. And maybe that was me.

I don't remember how long I fell asleep. My dreams were far too few and in between, but they were desolate, just like my surroundings. I think one of them was a meeting of the Royal Court, in which I stood up and exclaimed that Julien and I were together, before he told me that I was already dead—see? There was my heart, on the mantle, set in a jaded box in perpetual display. I laughed at this, nervously, I might add, before walking to throw it into the hearth to decimate all evidence.

A sudden noise entered my skull before I could continue with the sequence, and I opened eyes so numb to exactly what I wanted to get away from—reality. I was still there, still alone and helpless, the air getting bluer and dimmer. I wonder how much time had passed—probably not terribly much, an hour or two at most, but I felt no relief from the escaping dreams. In fact, it made me even wearier. But I had to come to terms—if I fell asleep for a long time in this environment, I would freeze to death.

I lifted my head. The snow had dampened my hair to stick to my face, and when I brushed it behind my ears, a drained expression forever lasting, I had distant images of the dogs at the castle, running ahead in the large green grounds, playing with each other in merriment and having it better than most people. I almost smiled, if it were physically possible. I could barely even sit myself up, mental energy waning as I clamped a firm hand upon my brow. The more pressure, the better.

Another bark filled my senses, and this time I turned, surprised, to the left, where in the distance I could detect the motion of a mid-sized animal, moving closer and closer with mounting curiosity. When it got to about a few yards away, I could tell it was a fluff ball of a sheepdog; a girl, no doubt, for it was beautiful and sort of feminine, and it shook its nub (where a tail had been bobbed off long ago) with the energy of a twelve-year-old courtier. Its dark coat was laden with snow, which was continually falling to add to the white in its head and paws, and I thought immediately that I must not be alone here…dogs of this sort do not run wild or alone, especially in the woods.

She stopped a little ways before me, making quick, sharp movements to clarify my presence, and when she was sure she had seen me—someone new, someone she didn't know, she began barking and howling furiously, shaking and running around in circles as though I were a mass murderer. I immediately put my finger to my lips to shush her—who knows where the hunters were—but then I remembered that animals first have to gain one's trust before any sort of reprimand could be pushed. I made the hushing sound soft, like the waves upon an ocean, and gave gentle kissing noises as she reduced her hysteria to short and random blurts. Slowly, I extended my hand out to her, leaning in as friendly as I could, and in all her frenzy she complied and came to sniff it. Her nose was cold and wet, something disgusting _and_ delightful simultaneously, and after several seconds passed by, I gingerly moved my palm over her head and stroked the plethora of fur. She sniffed my arm and wrist in the process, though I really didn't mind, continuing to make friends with her, and when I was finally sure she wouldn't betray or run away from me, as I was being charmed by her very presence, I stood up, teetering in the process, and reached down to pet her chin. She tried to jump up on me out of new companionship, but I caught her paws, giving her a big kiss on her blinded forehead, and let her follow after me as I began to walk in the direction she came from. Of course she was really _leading_ me; she would always strut a couple of paces ahead and then stop to make sure this was the right way to go, to her territory, but I fooled her and strode up as she raced on.

The distance really wasn't very much, just winding—past whitened trees and bleak, wintry plants. It would have been lovely had I still had some hope left—even though this dog was here, I felt broken and betrayed. The darkened ambience didn't help much either.

Finally, when we emerged from the dense brush into a circular clearing, she raced on faster than she ever had during that whole time, while I could only pause, leaning against a skinny tree with wide eyes. I gulped. A large…well, edifice of some sort reigned toward the middle of the white snowfield, its brilliance only stunted by its oddness. I had never seen anything like it…an affluent size for a cottage; lofty and comfortable, with one wall completely engulfed in snow catching ivy. I bowed down against the wood, letting myself fall—salvation at last! But could I just go right to the door?

Yes, in this weather and atmosphere, I hardly think I shouldn't.

I approached the home somewhat cautiously, keeping my eye on the dog, ignoring the wet shoes I now had to tread in. This was terrible. I felt a flitter of nervousness, but I suspect it was mostly because of the chills I suffered through. I looked at my hands—paper white. I felt like a ghost in a living being's world, where I can only come out when others aren't to be found, to mourn the loss of a promising life. And maybe I was. Maybe in that instant, when Nicolas fired the gun at my eyes, I had really received the metal and had fallen, without really knowing what had gone on. The wolf had been my spirit guide, but now couldn't find me, so until we came in contact I was forced to wander. But then, what of this animal and shelter? Maybe it was a powerhouse—full of other spirits just waiting for their guides alike…it did seem ethereal, and the dog was a keeper of ghostly roaming.

Everything was blue—it was all dim and dark, so depressing for one used to so much light—so I couldn't quite see everything perfectly. From the door in the middle, an orange and red stained glass peephole in the shape of the sun brilliantly took hold of my vision. It wasn't gaudy—it was just large enough to draw attraction to, and it gave me the power of looking on other things. There were windows on either side of the entrance, large, glass ones with interior shutters down on the left side. There looked to be pictures on these as well, but I couldn't make them out. In the dark, I saw a large shingled roof slant up and then flat across a wide distance—it looked to be three stories tall—and the chimney, standing out as if it were an evil nemesis on the other side, cold and without smoke. Above the doorway and windows (and there were many of them, all shut) rose gothic points of cream, bordered delightfully as though it were lace. On the left side there was a connected roof which housed many snow-gilded barrels and boxes, though I didn't dare go over there. It would probably give me a sense of what kind of people live here, and strange as it may sound, that was something I would rather not have known. It was quite a large house, built out of several different resources—wood, or brick, or even marble in small, decorated areas, and made to last through days such as this.

The dog scratched eloquently at the front door, whimpering at me as though this was my house. Consumed by the pain of the cold, I immediately hurried and pounded on the wood, suddenly thinking of what may happen if someone answered it. What if it was an old, old woman, hunched over from so many years of poor posture, with flesh that sagged over her elusive eyes, and a nose so flamboyant it pointed down over her toothless smile. What if she said something like, "Ahh, Nicolette, I have been expecting you," and brought me in, right into the horrors of a madhouse. Of what that was I didn't want to think about. What if it was a tall, giant of a man, with a mean face and evil grin, grabbing my arm and pulling me upon his bed to do something worse than what Nicolas was intending. But I shook off these thoughts; kept knocking. I knocked and knocked until my skin was red, by that time throwing myself against the threshold, desperate, welling with tears, while the dog began barking out of alarm again.

I stopped. I ran around to the annexed shed—there was a plain black door there, and I tried that too, but to no avail. I ran around back to the front—if I was going to remain outside, it might as well be in the delightful part of the house.

I pounded on the windows. On the immediate right one, a shutter had been left open, probably in case someone should lose a key, and after asking for God's forgiveness, as if breaking and entering were up there with the seven sins, I ran back to the brush to grab a fairly large stick. It went right through, making a small shatter as specks like jewels fell in and out of the frame. I grabbed a nearby stone, very small, and cleaned out all of the large shards. Hoping my coat would protect me from the little pieces left, I rammed my arm inside and felt around. The doorway was all smooth—where was it? The lock was near the window, so I couldn't be too far off…a little farther down…and with an excited twang, my hand moved over something rising off the plane and textured. I felt around for the little knob, and using more strength than normal due to weakness, I turned it, faintly hearing the click, and when I got past the horrors of taking my arm back in one piece, opened the door with anticipation.

The dog rushed in before me, taking comfort in the black surroundings, and like a tourist I followed it around, trying to decipher things without any source of light. There appeared to be a white couch and other pieces of furniture in the main room—I was so fatigued, I really didn't bother studying all of it, and towards the other side I detected a kitchen. The animal had strutted there, where a dark island foreshadowed the countertops behind it, and a small, snowy window looked out into the eternal forest over a faintly glimmering faucet. There was a little bowl somewhere inside where she hungrily munched on whatever was in her diet, and when I took a step in, ready to pillage for any source of food (for my energy was so depleted, it was all I could do not to push her over and continue where she left off), I saw the wide wooden stairs, winding up past stone walls, and for some reason I thought I had better back off. I had already broken in…to actually take what was theirs was pushing it way over the…well…the rules. Likewise, I was very tired, but I couldn't go up to someone's personal territory. And once I began to, I know I couldn't stop. It just felt…wrong. Then…just sit on the floor?

No. Hastily I fled back to the den, grabbing logs in a copper bin and throwing them into the hearth. I wasn't really thinking—I just piled them in; there were so many left. I took the matches and quickly lit a few, waiting until the growing blaze actually gave me that glorious feeling of heat, before removing my jacket to serve as a cushion. I got so very near the flames; I actually had to pull away before long. It warmed my skin and dried my hair…giving me that glowing feeling again. Oh, I was still incredibly hungry, but now at least I knew I wouldn't perish.

Within ten minutes, I had reclined into a sleeping position on the ground near the hearth, my head propped up by a folded coat, my arms spread wide on the stone floor, and it took me next to nothing to enter a second, more peaceful dream world.


	6. Mes Frères

      _I don't expect people to take me seriously, so when they do it feels very weird._

_        Like I tricked them somehow, letting them think I was worth the noise._

_        Because I'm not worth anything…I don't have any real views._

_        I'm so superficial…all I'm interested in is pleasure._

_        And can't they see that?_

        In the filmy eyes of slumber, my lids shut and saliva escaped from an uncaring mouth as the temperature grew to a sickening heat, and in all the irritation, I turned and coughed, working out the crick in my neck from sleeping on a hardwood floor. The fire must have died down; I could barely feel its warmth, yet I had no desire to restore its glorious life…I couldn't even open my eyes. No, all I wanted to do—all I _could_ do was shift and bunch up the jacket, a lousy companion for a pillow, and fall in an uncomfortably heavy sleep once more. I felt I had a conversation with myself, pleading to pull up and leave the territory, for it was no use waiting around to meet the unhappy owners of a broken window and an occupied den.

        But I couldn't budge. Something was tying me here; my laziness, probably; its utter fatigue—but however much I fooled myself, how long I resolved to snap out of it in five minutes, it was becoming longer and longer, until finally I was stuck in a sort of half-sleep, keeping myself alert when the next set of five minutes was up. It soon grew cold—icy, even, and I felt a darkening freeze run through my body, giving me cold shakes as my head was pounding and practically on fire. What a mess I was, but I stayed.

        My dreams were slipping one by one—as I mean, one on top of the other, and the reality of each was phenomenal. At one point I had to be restrained from throwing myself into the grand hearth at home, for I knew there was something there—some portal, or other, and I went into another feeling scared and worried about myself. I curse that I worried so much, worried for those five minutes that stretched into hours, for they entered my subconscious, plaguing me with unadulterated nightmares. They didn't frighten me to awaken; in fact, they made me even more tired—so dead in life, I never even noticed the darkness growing in the windows.

        "Ra…if you wer…God, this would…"

        Sound was my immediate caller, but I didn't rouse back to life so easily. Through time, some two minutes or so, my ears opened up, honing their abilities for a handicap on my blindness. I knew the fact: someone was there, but I didn't want to face it.

        There was much trifling after this, whispering, pillow fluffing the other furniture, firewood fueling the blaze; I could hear the crisp ashes welcome their feast as they clung to the logs instantaneously. Footsteps thumped around me—they put that quick, vibrant sensation in my stomach—and more talk from every corner of the room. I wondered just how many people were present with me; perhaps whoever lived here had called a whole town to survey this marvel in their living room. I might have been scared, but I was too distracted to fear anything. I did all I could to be silent and still, trying to gather what I could observe through hearing in hopes of finding out where I was, but it was growing hot, and I was anxious, and the time when I could at last open my eyes would never come fast enough.

        Some five minutes past, my skin growing ever warmer under the eyes of scrutiny, just—lying there, not being able to move, knowing they were watching me…it was horrible. I held my patience though, for as long as it took. Ten minutes must have past, but it felt as though the world had ended; flushed into the sea, and I would never get the chance to be heard.

        In a race of the heart, my stomach pumping like wings, I let my eyelids flutter. I was turned over on my stomach, head halfway buried into the pillow, so if I opened them, it would be discreet to those not looking exactly at the time. Just long enough to survey the room, and _then_ I would figure this mess out.

As soon as I let my auburn pupils show, I moved them in all directions to see what was up, collecting my surroundings in such a short amount of time, with a million different things going through my brain. There were two people by the window I shattered—fixing it, I presume, a few others rummaging in the kitchen or around something I couldn't see, some on the couch, and one or two near the fire, so close to where I was.

My vision landed on the curious intent of a young man, sitting on the sofa's arm, with corn flour hair and soft blue eyes, the kind that seemed easygoing—never tense. But now they widened and blinked two or three times, before he gave it up and we locked gazes curiously, motionlessly, before his blazing grin appeared and, warmed by this secret affection, I could do nothing but smile back. We watched each other in this fashion, all the time wondering who we were, speculating, happy that we didn't look like murderers or something equally nefarious. I knew I could make myself appear quite angelic, but in all honesty, this was sincere.

"She's awake!" a strong voice croaked, and I sang out a surprised "Oh!" as my arm was pulled like a stick from a pond to sitting position, in front of the room, and I only had a trio of seconds to glance; see over the friendly young man who identified with me and the girl sitting tranquil if not a tad miffed against the cushions, legs neatly crossed with the hand of a tall, appealingly intelligent looking man on one thigh. I took in others' presence, but I couldn't describe anyone's physical beauty; not more than a flash, before the loud tintinnabulation of a sword coming out filled my mind with blood, and the cold steel was placed against my throbbing neck.

Jungle hair, pallid skin, a distressed state of mind—I must have looked _t__rès_ bien to them, now sitting at the mercy of a blade on a nameless floor. As I whimpered the one who saw me stood up, exasperated and saying something like, "Stop, Jérôme!" and others leaned forward and quipped, anxious to see what he would do. I didn't get a chance to even glance at my persecutor; I felt something crawl through my hair, as I always do when troubled, and ran my fingers harshly through it.

"Are you prepared to die for your sins?" he asked, slow and steady, though somehow false; as in a play. Maybe it was just my own consciousness refusing to take him seriously. "No one is spared when committing a crime."

"Look, you don't have to feel threatened by me, alright?" My voice was on the point of tears, and I spoke looking at the ground in the most pathetic condition possible. "I'm not armed, am I? I haven't taken anything—anything at all; not even any food. I found this place…I was just doing what anyone would have in the circumstances!"

"Doesn't matter," said the voice; he took his time and talked through a half-closed mouth, as if he had other intentions, hinting only by his tone. He steadied the blade right at my throat. "Breaking and entering is a serious offense, one punishable by death."

"Okay Jérôme, that's enough," piped a new voice, somewhat stressed, but I didn't dare look up.

"No, this isn't a game." I could almost feel his eyes cast back down at me. "Do you have any last requests?"

I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't cry. "Yes," I rejoined, louder than I had ever spoken to them. "Please take me back outside. I'd rather die by the cold than by an imbécile."

No Nicolette, what did you do?

He will kill you now—no—he will torture you and _then_ kill you.

I hate you so much.

My eyes went awry, scanning the square of floor in front of me and then freezing, not even daring to breathe. No one made any exclamations…I wondered what they were thinking…most likely their faces told it all. I couldn't move though. In a few seconds' time, the sword, so shiny and grand, pulled away from my neck, upward and then down into the wooden floor, serving as a cane to balance my assassin on. I couldn't help it; I was breathing hard now—silent but deep, as in after intercourse, and I had to lift my eyes—so slowly—to meet his stare.

I saw he was void of expression as he watched me, except for his eyes; they were dark blue in color and full of electricity, blazing from some cavernous region of incensed nerves. And they were deep ingrained, like two walnuts with shady intentions, and brows that perpetually arched themselves—much like Julien's. His lashes were quite long, or so it appeared to me, from that angle, and his eyes on the whole were spaced apart, the farthest they could be without looking queer. In fact, it looked rather in proportion. His nose was rounded and in the air, his lips sultry (yet at the time emotionless), his clothes seemed rather downcast and finely cut for one not exactly close to my father's courts, and the last detail was his burnished, darkly golden hair that shagged to his ears in the most tailored way. Was he handsome? Yes…I would say so, but not in the conventional way; as in not in Julien's way. His age was probably thirty or thirty and something; not too old…just on the verge of growing into his features (imagine how utterly gorgeous Julien will look in his thirties), nonetheless it was rather childish of him to be acting so callously.

He stared down at me, hard as stone from such a slight angle; I mostly saw the bottom of his chin and nostrils, and the hint of those eyes. Stuck up in our own pride, neither of us moved for at least the next thirty seconds, and finally, finally his mouth twisted into a cruel smile, contracting like a rose and then spreading to show pearly white teeth. A laugh emitted low, like a shaking cavern, and before I realized, he had already closed his lips, evil seeping from his pores and scorching from his eyes, yet so calmly, vociferating, "These are the charges against you so far. Breaking another's property, entering another's property, insulting the owner of the damaged property, and," he eyed me up and down, "entering the wild unattended."

I knew those words.

I breathed, refusing to acknowledge these things so quickly as they wished, and looked blank for a moment to a square on the couch, and then at the other girl, who simply stared. She wouldn't help. I swung my eyes back to meet him, trying not to seem pleading, but I'm sure I failed miserably. "Is there nothing I can say to convince you that I had no other choice?" I was back to speaking to my hands, clasping themselves like scared kittens in my denim lap. "How could I just let myself die like that? And…how can you not understand another's problem? I know all of you would do the same thing." To play up my recital, I lifted my eyes slightly, staring at whoever was in front of me, though not being able to really see anyone at all. "Is the human race really so unfeeling?"

And my friend, the pleasant boy, kneeled down to equal my stance, our faces one inch apart. He shook his head and raised his eyes in a fascinating smile. "No. No, we're not."

Ahh, a moment of peace.

 "I don't believe this." The man standing over me whipped his weapon up, attacking posture, and smirked as I once again fired my feelings into his heart, a glare so hateful even I felt it. His hands were shaking.

My peripheral vision showed the one at my side switching views between us, and immediately he jumped up and pummeled Jérôme, causing the blade to fly to the other side of the room, the two or three there taking cover from its deathly promise. Horrified, I backed away from their fight, trying to collect my thoughts on what I saw: the two strangling each other and climbing over legs and arms for domination, cries and vicious grunts spouting from their voice boxes. The decent one caught Jérôme's fist in his palm, and took the diversion as a chance to clutch his breast and throw him from him, though instead my would-be murderer grabbed him by the collar and began to bang his head repeatedly against the ground.

He wriggled away from his grip and kneed him in the stomach, and as the one went back the other came up, and finally Jérôme was wrestled down and locked to uselessness, darting eyes to me and almost shouting, "I hate people like you—"

"Shut up, Jérôme—" his jailer tried to intervene, though he persisted.

"No, I hate people like you. No feelings, no thoughts except appearance. You have no real personality." I was hurt; he went on. "You don't deserve your beauty, because that's all you're good for. It's only physical—you are nothing inside." The blond boy elbowed him and tried to quiet his charges, but he only grunted and shouldered him away. "I hope you die soon, and put an end to your misery. You're—uhh!" his face was being pounded, "a walking ghost!"

I have never been so insulted in my whole life. Perhaps because he really struck a chord within me. But…if he did, then, it would really contradict his words. Because I would know how to feel. Maybe…I don't know…maybe I was just afraid his convictions were real, and that I was nothing; no one, just a girl so caught up on physical beauty and loving handsome men.

But I'm not; otherwise I would take it as a compliment.

I was backed against a wall, knees together and in front of me, hand up, fingers to my palms as if waiting to catch something. My eyes were slick, I'm sure, and I looked at him as though he were some mental ward escapee. I hardly noticed an exquisite, white-haired angel crouching in front of me as if to protect me from the reckless wonder; I should be the one to guard _him_ with my life.

I looked here and there, collecting my thoughts, collecting myself, and ultimately, I attempted to press against the wall to raise myself up.

The man next to me: a short, somewhat slight character, with docile brown eyes and dusted brown whiskers put his gentle hand on my arm, igniting a start as I turned to face him. He had kneeled to my level, relatively speaking of course; in actuality, I was taller than him down on the ground, and his fashionable overcoat dusted the floor with clinging warmth.

"Mam'selle," he implored, smiling wide with his eyes. I knew immediately that there wasn't a hurtful impulse in his body, and that he wasn't particularly attracted to women. "Please, if you would honor us so, stay here tonight. I'm so sorry about your troubles. And," he hesitated, glancing over to their side of the room, "pay no attention to Jérôme." They were now talking—arguing civilly in a tone not meant for us to hear. "He's having a hard time right now. He has more problems than even I can comprehend. The only one I can be allowed to tell you is his attempt to cold kick la coca, which is more than just harming him right now. He got…addicted after the tragedy."

I had to throw him another glance. I'm sure my eyes were wide to the brim, but I was thinking very unclear things.

"Thank you…" I began as I angled my face, absentmindedly, to the one addressing me. I was still watching the other.

I shook my head and smiled. "Thank you. I really do apologize for breaking into your house…I would never, ever do anything so vile in normal conditions." I noticed the sheepdog lounging on the couch, panting and watching us through thick bangs. "I would have never found it if it weren't for your _ange_ over there."

He grinned and drew her over to us. "Then I thank her for bringing us another." He kissed her hair and ruffled her, causing her little nub to shake, and it was the only real warmth in my heart I felt this whole night. "This is Minette, our only girl, usually," he threw his head in the direction of the flaxen woman tenderly whispering in her lover's ear, who was staring at me in turn. "She brings comfort not even human companions can. It's no wonder she should help save another's life, no it's not, no it's not," he humored the dog, scratching her ears and letting her nuzzle her snout into his breast. I smiled for convenience, though I was not feeling exactly up to par. "I'm Nicolette," I bowed my head, and he gallantly kissed the top of my hand, still holding the neck of his pet. "Nicolette…de Neige le tiers de Ange Beau."

He withdrew.

I dusted my skirts, arranged them, and waited.

"C…come again?"

"I'm…Princess Nicolette. My father is Alexandre."

The girl leaned forward from her seat, hand on a small flask of brown glass and her other arm around the man. She had long, wavy blonde tresses and a very healthy glow, something of a natural beauty, tropical; not usually from these parts. "The very one whose father was just wed to la baronne Vivienne Meunier?"

"Indeed. Um, she's the reason I'm here in the first place."

"I was at some of the reception," she went on intrigued, pushing her lover's hand away when he tried to lock it with hers. "But, I didn't see you…I don't think…"

"Our guest has a very lovely face," the man at my side amiably remarked before me, "I'm sure you would remember it, Sophie." Her eyes, unlike her face, shifted toward him. "And so do you, of course."

"I was only at the first part of the reception." I felt I had to intervene before another more heinous fistfight arose. "Just long enough to make an appearance." I attempted a smile. "I suppose the party spirit wasn't with me. Oh, but I was at the wedding. Were you?"

"No. I was going to go, but _someone_ couldn't put down his pen fast enough to get there." She glared at the frozen man to her right. "You see, I'm rather well acquainted with the Madame. I used to date Nicolas."

I immediately sat up stiff and made a disgusted sound.

"Yes, I know the feeling."

"Exactly, but…" Words washed through my mind, and I tried to find out exactly how to spell it out. "He tried to kill me. That's why I ended up here."

She lowered her head, eyebrows high and floored. She mouthed the beginning of the word 'what' and looked as though she didn't really trust me…trust anyone for that matter. Mon Dieu, how many shocks could they take in one night?

"The bottom line is, Vivienne sent her sons to kill me this morning, while we were all hunting. I got away in time, got lost, and ended up here."

"But…why, why would she try to kill you? Vivienne is a wonderful person."

It was my turn to look perplexed. "Come again? Not to me, ever."

"Perhaps you just don't know her then."

"She never gave me a chance to know her. She was always against me from the beginning."  
She didn't speak for a moment. She must hate me. "Well, why would she want to kill you?"

_Because I'm the most beautiful in the land and she couldn't handle the competition._ As if I would say anything such. She'd think I deserve to die. Maybe I do, I mean, what have I done for anyone anyway? I haven't exactly helped anyone…I've decided to dedicate my life to it, but it's always eventually, eventually. When will it begin?

"I don't know," I finally spoke. My eyes darted over to Jérôme, leaning against the opposite wall, listening to me with rather intrigued, if not friendly eyes. "But…" I leaned against the wall, exasperated.

        "Nicolette should get some rest," the man at my side said, putting a hand on my arm and imploring me. "We can discuss this all in the morning. Things have been very hectic around here and, everything's always worse at night."

        "She's staying?" said the beast, a look of rather considerable animosity for me or, for anything intrusive into _his_ turf abound. 

        "I can leave. I don't wish to be a burden anymore than I have to." For the first time, I really didn't know what to do or how to feel, and I looked around for my tarnished jacket mumbling mindless rhetoric and gathering my hair behind me. "Uhh…umm, if you could just point me in the direction of a town or something…"

        I immediately flushed, hearing the sniggering from all axes—especially Jérôme, whom I wanted to kill, and Sophie, whom I wanted to slap, but even the boy next to me, the only one trying an ounce to be amiable could hardly keep from smiling. The blond angel I had skimmed over just before kneeled in front of me, perfection to the core, with androgynous features of blue eyes and feathery hair; of clothes dripping in red velvet, a sign of eloquent nobility. "Ma princesse, the nearest town is some thirty miles from here."  
                "It wouldn't be in your interest to walk, especially with no money and such tattered clothing." This new, strong voice allayed any hostility he might have had toward my breaking and entering, only giving his professional opinion, something that burned my skin all the more. This is what I deserved, I presume, for being so stubborn about dying. I dipped my head once, agreeing sullenly, and in words too tired to contain expression, I asked the floor what I was to do.

        "I think we should let her stay for the night. Come on, she's right; it's an honest mistake, and she had to do it. We'll let her get some rest and sort it all out in the morning," the golden boy next to Jérôme finally piped in, letting his crystalline eyes flow into my soul once more. I had to grin at least a little; he was toying with me, but in such a way that meant no evil.

        "I do too," said perfection and the one at my side at about the same time. A few more murmurs of agreement bound the room in unison—I suppose they really were nice people—and Sophie's boyfriend nodded at her whisper to his brain. "We're going to go, so she can sleep in my bed tonight." With that, he stood up, black leather and all, and with the hand of his foreign girlfriend they reminded me of a burning star—something fireswept.

        "Am—am I the only one against this? We're housing the burglar! We should hang her at the very least."

        " That's quite enough now. Be a man Jérôme; you're incensing everyone and there's no reason to show such hatred."

        "Look," I tried to intervene, but the one by my side would just not let down, no matter how sweet his nature may have been.

        "No, everyone else here is trying to cope. We have to work together to stay in one piece."

        Jérôme said nothing.

        Ten minutes later, I was ushered into a dim room nearest to the stairs.

                I was left alone to collect myself, though I could see there were two beds in here; one near the lattice window, a big, thick white down that I was to sleep in, and another smaller, wine-colored mattress someone else would eventually take. White patterns of dancing light flew in from the thatched glass, making their mark on the opposite wall, and for a minute I could only watch their splendid lifespan play out in numb curiosity…they were caused by some type of pool outside, and what an angle it must have been at to reflect on a second story quarter. There was one lone candle on a dresser table for light; completely yellow and setting a rather medieval mood across my skin and nails. I looked down at them in the glow and saw their shiny endeavor, and knew that the only thing missing to perfect such a tranquil area was the serene strum of some classical guitar.

                I had to accept it: this is where I was at the moment; this was my life. But it didn't hinder me from being scared out of my wits.

                A rapid knock on the door sent my restive mind flying, and as soon as I spoke admittance, that blond boy, the one who had fought for me so gallantly before crept in, smiling as always, to sit down on his demure mattress. I feigned a grin—maybe rose a side of my mouth at most, until seconds past and I was able to avert my eyes to the ground in miserable self-pity. An uncomfortable silence ensued perhaps…a second and a half more, until he fidgeted through his pockets and then in the drawer beside him for a tiny metal box.

                "Pills?" he bluntly voiced. "They're for sleeping and…such. They might relax you."

                I didn't even think, accepting them graciously and then edging back to my bed. "Thank you." He nodded laxly in return. "So…" His hair looked apart of the yellow flame itself, in it's light and all. It looked so very alive. "How did you come by the smaller bed?"

                "Ahh, we're always deciding things oddly around here, bets, gambles, whatever…I don't even remember. It doesn't bother me, though. And the larger one is more suited to him, since he has Sophie and all."

                "And where do you go when they're together in here?"

                He scratched the indenture right below his lip, eyes widening to ethereal heights in the dark. "What makes you think I go anywhere?"

                My eyebrows steadily drawing themselves up pledged that his shock trick had worked, and to maintain at least a speck of dignity, I let myself limply fall on the cushiony pillows. "I'm exhausted. Maybe we can speak more tomorrow, before I leave."

                "I hope we're not just two passing ships."

                I let my gaze fall on him.

                "You somehow seem like a good friend."

                And with that, I closed my eyes.

                Dreams consisted of…odd things as usual. Forests and lakes, and watching myself dally in a chair, but most certainly the height of it was attending a gathering in the woods by witches and sorceresses, all dressed in rather beautiful medieval clothing, singing songs in old French and pouring shimmer dust on their bonfire and each other. Behind them, somewhat hidden by the shadows, stood an ancient well—ancient even for that time, with vines growing in the cracks and out of the bucket, still majestically swinging from a breeze. And behind this work of a people long past, stood a small apparition, silhouetted in black, with burnishing eyes I shall never forget.

                I felt a hand smother my face and I cried out, but no use: my vocal chords were useless. I was pulled back and I twisted and thrashed so violently I was even shocked myself. Whoever was there persisted, and wrapped a hand around my waist and arms, so even though I struggled with every bloody impulse I had the strength to evoke, an imposter, nameless and daring, was still controlling me. I kicked at his legs with my own, hurled my shoulder blades at him, and vowed never to give it up, how futile it might have been. I could never go silently to a death and just lie down and die beforehand.

                Halfway down the stairs, he stumbled and we both fell—hard—and I've never known such solace as the hard stones of the kitchen floor. I felt alive and cried out the beginning of a loud scream, but, never relenting, he flung himself on top and put out that fire fairly quickly. Stifled again, I raised my arms what I could and clawed at the black figure, still trying to get away, and he used his free hand to press down on my eyes, though I rocked hard to the left and threw him somewhat against a cabinet. He then rushed and wrestled me, both of us trying to get on top—him to probably kill me, me to get away, but in another plot turn he began pulling me forward across the room, dragging me is more the word, while all the while I pushed and kicked and kept him at a continuing pace of staggered blows. After a few, violent strides he yanked us both up and slammed me against the wall, putting his hands tight around my throat and turning on the gas lamp in the next room. Jérôme, I knew it.

                "What did they tell you?" he screamed with such anguish, though I could barely see the body, just the blue tint on the left side of everything.

                "Nothing," I croaked out, "nothing…"

                "Everyone that lives here is a brother to me, and none of them would blame you if I killed you right now."

                "Please…you're…hurt…ing…me…"

                "I'm in hiding right now. Do you know why? I murdered someone."

                "Please…"

                "I was a count, I had a good life, I married young and happily, but three years ago she left me for another, for a banker with long, almost blue-black hair and a taste for travel. She left me because of these things, and two days later he came to my home and asked for her dowry and possessions; he couldn't marry her without them, and when I asked why not, he said she is only worth as much as her fortune, of which there is plenty. Disgusted, and knowing she would never leave him if I asked her, I shot him. I fled to the country, to here, and it's been safe, and it's been the perfect life; a new name and new people, but now, you will surely confess when you're back at your castle and sentence us all!"

                By now I couldn't speak, just make horrific gurgling sounds, while my eyes had since closed, and when he persisted and continued telling me the sordid feelings he's had to endure and how hated I am because of who I was, I murmured, before I let my hands fall from his, "I forgive you."

            I heard his voice cut off, filling the air with an odd silence; a reflective one. I felt his hands being taken from my throat and feeling my body slump to the ground, but I remember actually feeling all of these things too, and remaining in my body. My hand gravitated toward my neck, rubbing the sore indentions (of which there were plenty) and I remember breathing hard, long and still, trying to collect myself, while not trying anything more than just to stay alive. My lids drew up, eyes following, to see him destitute in his sorrow, watching me through wet eyes that wouldn't allow their tears to fall, and stunned that he had actually come so close to taking another life. Through some odd whim of my soul, I don't know what, and he surely didn't deserve it…perhaps…I reached my hand to him, drawing him down their with me, and, in that low light, he cried long and hard into my hair for the first time in, my guess would be, three years.


End file.
